tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63488529900671644172024-02-19T00:07:46.794-08:00Writing For JoyThoughts to shareGladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.comBlogger169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-17081566783967397102013-05-07T08:42:00.000-07:002013-05-07T08:55:19.955-07:00Pain is the Spur — short story by Gladys Hobson (G B Hobson)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Pain is the Spur<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Freda read the damning remarks written with the appraiser’s red pen,
which had been applied — with a generosity akin to a banker’s pension — over
her entire manuscript. Being so painful to read, it might as well have been written
in her own blood. Cliché appeared to be written so many times that she wondered
if Brent, the reviewer, could only write in clichés himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It seemed bizarre that
normal conversation, engaged in day by day at her old workplace, could be
regarded as cliché by someone who had never entered a factory, and likely had
never had a pint at the local with a bog cleaner, or Sanitary Disposal
Operative to be more PC. Was she supposed to search a dictionary to find
obscure words, and make up poetic phrases for a character that could barely
read and write?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She stood up from the
kitchen table and threw the manuscript into the box for recycling, Brent’s
humiliating conclusions, ringing death tolls to all literary ambition, could
not be more negative:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Even if you made
substantial edits to correct these failings, the manuscript would never find a
publisher. The storyline has no appeal, sagas are out of fashion and, quite
frankly, you will never make a writer. You lack the essential gifts. Any
supposed publishing professional who told you otherwise would be more
interested in the fee, and hoping you would return for another appraisal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Four hundred pounds of her
precious redundancy pay to have her manuscript torn apart, and far more
effectively than the electric shredder could ever do. Anger and mortification,
welled up tears in her eyes. An unseen hand held her throat in a tightening
grip, accompanied by acid, painfully flaming her stomach and rising to burn its
way up to her mouth. Freda knew she had to give in and let loose her tears of
pain, or suffer the consequences — further erosion of her stomach lining. But
instead, she reached for the Gaviscon bottle, shook it and swallowed down two
full tablespoons of the horrid stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I will not cry, I will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>,” she muttered, over and over, her
balled fists gripping her pounding head. Action was needed, anything to halt
the increasing tension. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She fished the manuscript
out of the large padded packet, took it to the spare room, and sat in front of
the shredder. Two pages at a time, she fed the child of her loins — the product
of nine months labouring — into the shredder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Through painful eyes, Freda
looked around the poorly furnished room with its desk, table, computer,
printer, piles of books, and all the accoutrements of a writer in the making.
This room, with bare-boarded floor, oddments of furniture and tatty curtains,
had been to her a nursery. But her babies would never be born to see the light
of day. No bonny baby contests for her little ones — they were too malformed and
ugly to live. They were not wanted. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She</i>
was not wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Tears burst from under her
eyelids and streamed down her face, Wails of pain suddenly escaped her throat
bringing relief to pent-up emotions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Throughout her life, the
niggling feeling of not being good enough for anything she attempted, haunted
her like a demon from the cellar of her mind. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inferiority complex</i>. Now there is a cliché she could use about
herself. Tears turned to hysterical laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Are you all right, Freda?”
Her neighbour Liz, a fellow redundant worker at the curtain factory, had just
arrived. “I rang the bell, but no answer. I thought I heard you crying so I
came straight in. Sorry…er… you’re laughing, not crying. What’s so funny?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Nothing really.” For sure,
telling Liz anything meant informing the whole neighbourhood. Sniffing back
tears that once again threatened to engulf her, Freda turned her head away to
switch off the shredder, glad to have a few seconds to regain control. She
wanted the nosy bitch to go away but instead she politely asked, “Do you want a
cuppa?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I wouldn’t mind one, and
one of your nice cup cakes. My stomach feels as if my throat’s been cut.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Freda smiled ironically; that well-used phrase had been
red-penned on her manuscript. The pain returned to her head and her throat
muscles tightened again. She moved to the kitchen to prepare the snack, leaving
the door open for Liz to keep up a monologue about Fred Bishby, their one time
overseer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Freda prepared the snack,
taking freshly baked cakes from the cooling tray. Had Liz smelled them while
they were cooking? Funny how she always turned up after a baking session.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Why had she mentally called
Liz a nosy bitch? Not like her at all. What other horrid thoughts did she
harbour but never said aloud? People always thought her a nice person but what
she showed to the world could not possibly be her real self. People would not
want to know the real Freda: Freda the nasty person; Freda the failure; Freda
who thinks herself so clever, but is really a laughable clown who speaks and
writes in clichés.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She caught her reflection in
the kitchen window, now a mirror with the winter’s afternoon so dark and
miserable matching her mood. Not a bad looking blond of fifty years, except for
grey hairs determined to match her grey eyes, and a weight of ten stones too
heavy for her five feet two inches of height. But who cares? Not Jo: her
hubby’s only concern is to get his meals on time, and, of course, City winning
the cup. It was different when they were first married, then—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What’s up, luv?” Liz had
come into the kitchen. “You don’t seem yourself today. Is it your usual? It
won’t be for much longer. Huh, men should have to put up with what we women do.
Maybe they would be more understanding.” She sat herself down at the kitchen
table. “It’s warmer in here. Don’t the afternoons get dark and cold now? As I
was saying…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The kettle came up to the
boil. Freda warmed the big brown pot with hot water, emptied it and dropped in
two tea bags. The scent and taste of Earl Grey tea would have been nicer, but
she couldn’t afford her little luxuries now; her writing hobby had made sure of
that. She screamed inside her head. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Writing,
just a waste of money and time.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Help yourself to milk and
sugar,” she told Liz, while pouring out the tea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oo, lovely cakes, can I
have two?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Fat
pig</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">,
Freda said to herself, and instantly regretted it. She pushed the plate of
cakes over the white Formica-topped table. “Help yourself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">What was the matter with
her? She wanted to cry: weep for her lost youth, for the love she once shared
with Jo before football took over his life, for a home devoid of her two sons
now they had left home to live with partners. And today, yes today, for her
literary baby that would never be born. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Useless
that’s what I am, useless</i>, she heard the words echoing in her head. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m a first class loser</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“These cakes are lovely.
Have they got caraway seeds in the sugar coating?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes, I like to eat them
with Earl Grey tea. But I’m out of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I prefer P.G. Tips.” Liz
munched on her second cake, and then slurped the second cup of tea Freda poured
out for her. “Ugh! No sugar. She put in two spoonfuls. “How’s your writing
coming on? I love reading your stories. I told Max about that latest one. You
know, that saga. He wants to know if he’s in it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Freda burst into tears. She
sat down and put her head in her hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A sleeve of a rough jumper
touching her bare arm, and the sweet scent of caraway, told her that Liz had
left her chair to console her. Two motherly arms wrapped her in a comforting
embrace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“What is it, Freda? I knew
something was wrong as soon as I came in.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Freda couldn’t speak. What
would she say if she could? How could anyone understand her bereavement: her
loss of what was, and what might have been? Never mind her utter humiliation.
How could they? Even Jo thought she just played about on the computer filling
in spare time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Is there anything I can do
for you, luv?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Freda shook her head. “I’m
all right, just tired. I think I’ll go to bed for an hour before Jo gets in.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“You do that. I’m just next
door if you need me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Thank you, Liz. You’re a
true friend.” Freda said the words but her inner self yelled back, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hypocrite, hypocrite, you really think she’s
a nosy bitch</i>, A battle for truth and honesty ensued within Freda’s mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’ll be off then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Thanks for coming. Good of
you. You’re welcome any time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Freda felt a kiss on her
cheek and heard footsteps going outside. A little voice inside her head was
singing, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clichés, clichés, all clichés,
Freda. Your whole life is a cliché. That’s why you can only write clichés. Give
up writing and get yourself a life, woman.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Talking to herself<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">? </i>She must be going mad. Tired that’s
all. She poured herself another tea and walked to the lounge. The room seemed
cold and dark, in spite of the flickering flames of the coal-effect gas fire,
illuminating the close-by cherry-red plush suite and beige sheepskin rugs. She
put the cup on a small coffee table near her relaxing chair, switched on a
glass Victorian table lamp, closed the rough-textured beige curtains against the
winter’s chill, and finally clicked on the television.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Her mind drifted to words
Liz had spoken. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I love reading your
stories</i>. Liz was not the only one to compliment her on her writing. People
often told her how much they enjoyed reading her little yarns in the parish
magazine. Maybe, just maybe…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The sound of a baby crying
turned her attention to the television screen. It seemed to be a programme
about conditions in Darfur. Babies, skin clinging to bones and tummies swollen
from hunger, stared at her wide-eyed, She sat down and listened to the
commentary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It had all been heard
before. The facts were plain and stark. Mere words could not tell the full
story. The reporter looked straight at the camera with tears in her eyes:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We sit at home and read about the desperate plight of people
like these, but not until I came here and experienced the situation with the
whole of my senses — sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and a kind of sixth
sense of empathy — did I understand. But there is no way that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>can truly know what these people have
suffered, and are still suffering.” Her voice became shaky as tears streamed
down her cheeks. “Please help them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A small, emaciated child,
began screaming while a medical worker tried to find a vein to stick in a
candular. Freda found herself in tears, her heart filled with pity, sorrow and
remorse. Remorse for the money spent just to tell her that her writing is
rubbish and her baby is a non-starter, when so much good could have been done
with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Well, she will change that.
She will take note of the useful criticisms and discard the rest. Lots of
people had read her work and enjoyed it. She will show Mr bloody Brent that she
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> write. Never mind the clichés,
just like the documentary had involved her whole being, she will show what her
characters think and feel. Yes, show their actions in word pictures painted in
colours, sounds and smells — involving her readers, moving them to read on and
on. And when her first book is published, Brent will be the first to receive a
copy. Royalties will go to relief programmes. She had a mission in life and she
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> succeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Wiping the tears from her
eyes, Freda walked back to her computer and brought up the maligned manuscript.
On the second page she typed:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dedicated to the children
whose cries we never hear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Two years later, Freda received a letter from her publisher, Jocose
Nouveau Publishing:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">We
are pleased to tell you that your novel, Trouble At Mill, is now one of our
bestselling e-books. We would like to run a printed version. Do you still hold
the rights?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-15031012142612305552013-04-24T12:11:00.000-07:002013-05-07T08:58:17.095-07:00Early Spring In Our Garden — observed from our windows and doors.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaaiGOhWzcbK_zWbnbvt2SCciLHe5OwwJmBXGYGuUAp0daicapH9xQo3SFrfmQr1Dma-ufSm2pNV36XtDlgovTsOM_KUO4LCn9Zt-uRvqJWNnenM151kDsrm9Jo7Op_QkcN_9Hdc_ujA/s1600/SDC15178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaaiGOhWzcbK_zWbnbvt2SCciLHe5OwwJmBXGYGuUAp0daicapH9xQo3SFrfmQr1Dma-ufSm2pNV36XtDlgovTsOM_KUO4LCn9Zt-uRvqJWNnenM151kDsrm9Jo7Op_QkcN_9Hdc_ujA/s320/SDC15178.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Early Spring In Our
Garden — observed from our windows and doors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Since this blog is
called, “Writing For Joy,” it might be thought that , since I have written
nothing here for about six months, there has been little joy in my life!
However, I do have other blogs and my wordpress ‘Wrinkly Writers’ blog has
gained more attention from my ‘pen’ lately. During this last six months I have
reached the age of eighty and we have also celebrated our sixty years of
marriage. PLUS we are now blessed with a great-grandchild. And on Boxing Day we
actually had our immediate family altogether in one place — here! This is rare
as my eldest son works on an oil rigg half his time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The problem of getting
family together for celebrations became clear when we celebrated our Diamond
Wedding (Spring Day).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have had
four mini-celebrations. Four of our grandchildren had been unable to get to any
of them. So I guess we will take them out for a meal one by one the next time
they visit. Such is the scattering of family these days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There has been sadness
too with the death of a childhood friend. Sadness is an inevitable part of life
the older you get and outlive ones you love or simply admire. But joy comes
when the clouds break and the sunshine of the joy of living breaks through once
more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Now, after all the
snow, rain and cold weather, spring has truly arrived. Flowers burst from their
buds and open their petals to the warmth of the sun. The buzzing of bees work
their magic of producing honey and fertilizing growing crops. Nature’s healing
is taking place. More cause for celebration!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">These are photographs
taken of our garden. The shrubs are just beginning to blossom and it will go on
throughout the year. I have no jewelry or gold (except my wedding ring and a
locket my hubby gave me 60 years ago), Loved ones and my garden are more
precious than gold and silver, and jewelry that has to be hidden from thieves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Other things too still
give me much pleasure. Holding in my hand the first book I had in print (When
Phones Were Immobile and Lived in RED BOXES.) <a href="http://hobsonsbooks.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Then the novels</a>. A word of
appreciation, either spoken or written, of my literary efforts. And little
things…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuYmpWJN9ZOjWixkMjWdTVB0mwa_7DEf9PgCGaSOVqTmUtntD46DTIk8xVjGdNYkRY3BuKe7d69ldJLrBRYy_psKq6j2dWIp9w_Fl93oUk_lNMI6_LqUUlZsdFICbNhyphenhyphenqeIkflEoznAw/s1600/SDC15176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuYmpWJN9ZOjWixkMjWdTVB0mwa_7DEf9PgCGaSOVqTmUtntD46DTIk8xVjGdNYkRY3BuKe7d69ldJLrBRYy_psKq6j2dWIp9w_Fl93oUk_lNMI6_LqUUlZsdFICbNhyphenhyphenqeIkflEoznAw/s320/SDC15176.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNfNShkv46K7fR6chWQiB8M_NhRrvLVTvpUcPClJnmX5TM5xBLXwz5jkru2MhEXWlp__7uXnprOFVhDxwBmsUIqtEiN5KPZloV806Qd98RcbWhMb7uRmRPSWBLNlCwJCrt4t9lWRFTHs/s1600/Red+Boxes+2nd+Ed.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNfNShkv46K7fR6chWQiB8M_NhRrvLVTvpUcPClJnmX5TM5xBLXwz5jkru2MhEXWlp__7uXnprOFVhDxwBmsUIqtEiN5KPZloV806Qd98RcbWhMb7uRmRPSWBLNlCwJCrt4t9lWRFTHs/s320/Red+Boxes+2nd+Ed.jpg" /></a>Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-67373611071464224052012-10-17T03:01:00.000-07:002012-10-18T00:54:53.548-07:00Our Time in Lindal 1969-1983 — Gladys Hobson<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Our Time in Lindal 1969-1983<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxFtamA_qLOaYTCsX6w1fbc2KLx54zaUqV85ivqCOAqIRmBhNMHUWMgvdwI4bJEs1YERv2R_tiuSESdU9HpL8QlUkH6jRH8K22wyhrEo85Xe7FHjLy9BA0XTw4yWPPAZIFZsWUFk2aoM/s1600/ChurchPCMed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxFtamA_qLOaYTCsX6w1fbc2KLx54zaUqV85ivqCOAqIRmBhNMHUWMgvdwI4bJEs1YERv2R_tiuSESdU9HpL8QlUkH6jRH8K22wyhrEo85Xe7FHjLy9BA0XTw4yWPPAZIFZsWUFk2aoM/s1600/ChurchPCMed.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Sixteen
years of village life,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">So many
changes we have seen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"> In brick
and stone, and mortal flesh<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Time for a
boy to become a man,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">For a youth
to grow in wisdom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">And strong
men change to weak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Time for
many friendly souls <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">To take
their leave of earthly things<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Having left
their mark in village lore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Sixteen
years since first we came — <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Townies in
a rural place: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">“Takes
thirty years to be accepted.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Half that
time has passed away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">But
villagers with roots going deep <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Into Lindal
soil and Furness ore<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Faithful
members of the church<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Keepers of
the rural scene<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Have not
withdrawn a hand of friendship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Sixteen years, now we move on — <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">With sadness yes, but thankful too <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">For all that Lindal’s given us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Thankful for the friendships made<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">The cheerful smiles, acknowledging
waves,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">And nods of recognition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Thankful for the time and space <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">To move and grow, explore and be, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Thankful for acceptance.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Church photo used by permission of Neil Fleming</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-14209065693297333662012-07-20T09:08:00.001-07:002012-07-20T09:18:47.870-07:00The Seeds of Ammon — short story by G B Hobson<br />
<h1>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The
Seeds of Ammon<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">by</span></div>
<div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">G B Hobson</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwxil72ogFpiaSIOAQsH8KztQfdgv4C4IhNwmVOVVTtb9TpRFOawHTz4qhYrOxUnjVPjhRHylMc60ITxMuPxWWcs9pFq3K1UTMHxAjCz3tXJmZs63x8l4kc46njvPUrmpcGBUCeyujK4/s1600/SDC10914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwxil72ogFpiaSIOAQsH8KztQfdgv4C4IhNwmVOVVTtb9TpRFOawHTz4qhYrOxUnjVPjhRHylMc60ITxMuPxWWcs9pFq3K1UTMHxAjCz3tXJmZs63x8l4kc46njvPUrmpcGBUCeyujK4/s320/SDC10914.JPG" width="224" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The Seeds of Ammon came in the night from the deserts of
Egypt, borne on air currents to fall on the meadows of the Vale of Eden. Even
as the spores of a Lycoperdales-type plant — secretly grown in the Oracle
Temple of Ammon at Siwah — were breathed in, so the people of the Vale began to
prophesy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Martha Langton, watched her neighbouring farmer, Jake Wood,
mount the few crumbling steps of the ancient monument set in the centre of
Eden’s Market Square. She noted an <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6348852990067164417" name="OLE_LINK1"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6348852990067164417" name="OLE_LINK2">unnatural brightness</a> to his pale blue
eyes, which went well with his long silver hair flowing from both scalp and
chin. He may be old and bent, his clothes old and shabby, but to her he would
always be a giant among men. She felt, as much as saw, Jake unbend his painful
arthritic joints to stand his full six feet of height. Trembling with an inner
urge to join him, Martha waited in awed silence as Jake began to speak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Listen, all you blessed with
hearing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">A few people nearby glanced up
but the pull of the market with its offerings of fruit and vegetables, bread
and cakes, local cheeses, fresh fish, bags and trinkets, shoes and socks,
women’s clothes, scarves and hats, sweets and books, had too great a hold.
Stallholders continued to shout out their wares above a cacophony of voices.
Martha knew that money burned in pockets as beckoning aromas wafted under
noses, and paint-box colours caught the eye. Shoppers had come to shop and
gossip, and they had no time to listen to a croaking old man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Something had to be done to
make them listen. Martha drew in her breath then let forth an unholy wail that
reverberated on nearby pots and pans. A shocked silence fell over the area as
though a banshee had suddenly arrived to presage doom on all present. Even Jake
straightened his back and became more alert. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Listen, all you blessed with
hearing.” No croaking now. Jake’s voice demanded attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Hear me and be warned. On the morning of Monday next, a
mighty storm will blow through Eden. Did you hear that? A storm like no other
witnessed in these parts. Crops ravaged… buildings shattered. A great swell
will sweep the river into the town… homes flooded… lives lost.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Seemingly exhausted, Jake sat
down on the steps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The Saturday shoppers now
appeared compelled to stand and wait for more. Then someone shouted, “He’s off
his bloody rocker.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The ensuing laughter broke the
tension.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Fools! When will people learn
to listen to ancient wisdom? Martha said to herself. Science thinks it knows it
all. Compared to Wisdom springing from the Other, science is fragile and
incomplete. The Oracle of Ammon has spoken, and all things shall come to pass.
Her skinny body may be no more than a coat-hanger displaying a faded flowered
dress, but she was not prepared to listen to the raucous remarks and be silent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Feeling a sudden surge of
strength, she pushed aside shoppers and made her way to the centre of the
deriding crowd surrounding the ancient Celtic monument.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Standing at the top of the
steps, the whole of her senses became acutely alive, overpowering her in an aura
of contrasting smells and incandescent colours. Suddenly, she felt overflowing
with an energy never before experienced. She could </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';">see</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> and </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';">feel</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> what lay ahead. Above all she
could </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';">smell</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> fear and death. Surely </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic';">nothing</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> could stop her from speaking
what must be said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">That morning, when she left
her cottage to catch the hourly bus to town, she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knew</i> the Seeds of Ammon had penetrated her mind imbuing her with a
sixth sense. If they had not, how would she know about the seeds and from
whence they had come? Yes, knowing and her acceptance, gave her power beyond
earthly reasoning. She had no doubt whatsoever that the words about to leave
her mouth were those of the Oracle of Ammon. But first must be silence. She
repeated the mournful wail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The laughter ceased. She was aware of how she looked to
others: a mere five feet tall bag of bones with hardly any hair to blow in the
soft breeze. Wrinkles, like a contour map, greeted her every morning in the
mirror. The curious eyes of bystanders may silently stare at her, but she could
see lips ready to crack into laughter at any moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“You are foolish — everyone of
you — not to heed Jake’s warning,” she began. “The believers at the far end of
our valley are at this moment moving their sheep and cattle to safety. They <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> and understand. That is why they
are not here today. I warn you all… those with houses by streams and rivers
return to your homes and prepare for the flood. You with animals in rotting
buildings, move them to stone barns or to the south side of hills. The wind
will come from the north but it will whirl and move in funnels… the sky will
open and streams will become torrents… rivers will break their banks. Protect
your children. Take what you can and drive many miles away. Hear me… nothing is
safe…. The Oracle of Ammon has spoken.” She closed her eyes as a deep sigh put
an end to her message.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Opening her eyes again she saw
the faces in front of her had turned rigid with fear. Then, breaking the
silence, a stallholder started to laugh. The shocked moment now shattered, men,
women and children howled with mirth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Oracle of Ammon? Who’s ’e
when ’e’s at ’ome?” yelled a customer at the fish stall, holding up a piece of
haddock. “Sounds a bit fishy to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">More bellowing laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Aye, a right load of
codswallop,” said the red-cheeked fishmonger, as he wrapped up his customer’s
purchase.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Soon shouts and whoops
accompanied puns and laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Angrily, Martha grabbed the
arm of a small, thin girl and dragged her up the few steps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“If will not listen to either
me or Jake, then hear the words of an innocent child,” Martha yelled, her
lightning shriek now rolling with thunder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Silence fell over the whole
area. To Martha’s satisfaction, more people approached the Celtic cross as
though drawn by a compelling force.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Dressed in a plain pink dress,
the slim girl — a little over four feet in height, huge vacant violet eyes,
long straight blonde hair surrounding a thin pale face with small nose — stood
with statue stillness. When she opened her small mouth, out came a flutelike
voice:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Look to the sky. What do you
see?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">She pointed a slim finger
upwards and the eyes of all those present followed her gaze.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Clouds, soft and puffy in a
perfect blue sky. But a mighty wind will come… darkness will cover this land.
The sky will be ripped open… a child of death will be born. Rain will fall in
mighty sheets… streams become rivers. Rivers burst their banks… the land will
be as the sea.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Her expressionless face turned
as her eyes swept the crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“The Oracle of Ammon has
spoken.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The girl collapsed. Martha
caught her in her arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Be warned. Go home and
prepare,” Martha called to the crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Sitting on the steps she
cradled the child’s head and shoulders, whispering, “Blessed of Ammon, rest and
be strong.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Martha watched as people
gradually recovered from their mesmerised state. Some were moving towards the
car park, others towards the bus stop. A few stood looking at the stalls as
though wondering what to do next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Go home,” she yelled at them,
waving an arm, but they still walked around like zombies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Most of the stallholders were
packing up. Others, who had travelled some distance from their stores in major
towns, were shaking their heads in disbelief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Monday morning dawned as previous days, but no bird sang. By
eight o’clock a chill wind had sprung up from the north and dark clouds loomed
overhead. Within an hour, darkness had fallen over the Vale of Eden. The wind
grew stronger and soon tornados were moving down the valleys carrying upwards
anything that lay in their paths. Lightning flashed in crooked forks of
brilliance against the blackening sky. Suddenly a jagged knife split apart the
darkened heavens and released rain such as never before experienced in that
part of the country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Martha stood at the top of a hill, half-sheltered by a cave.
Jake, the child, and the child’s family were with her. Rain joined the tears
streaming down her face. “We warned them, but the truth lay at their doors
begging to enter. They heard the message but they preferred the false security
of weather forecasts. We are not to blame. We played our part. Those who
received the Seeds of Ammon are safe, the others… ah… if only… if only…. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Hardly able to see through the rain, she could only imagine
what was happening in Eden. It would be as the Oracle warned. Uprooting and
flooding, death and destruction. Over the years it had happened in other
places, now it had come to Eden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Anger followed the death of Eden. Who was to
blame for the terrible destruction? Forty-five dead, over two hundred injured,
few houses left intact, Farm outbuildings shattered and blown away, with only
stone barns left standing and even those damaged. Animals killed, crops
destroyed, fields and homes under water. Never before had Eden been so ravaged
by nature. But the blocking of the spillway of the old Eden Mill’s earth dam
had made the situation even worse. The subsequent bursting of the overfilled
dam caused an even greater surge of water — thick with mud — through the
streets of Eden. Only Upper Eden had been spared the carnage experienced by the
lower regions and the town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Martha heard the mutterings and saw the looks that came her
way. Many years ago, a scapegoat would be found to resolve anger over failed
crops, plagues and other community disasters. The pain and anger felt by Eden’s
inhabitants could not be denied. She had warned them. They had not heeded.
Unable to accept responsibility for their lack of action, Martha knew who would
be accused. As for the blockage, it was surely obvious what had caused that.
But the people wanted someone to blame for their own lack of foresight in
dealing with potential disasters. The dam would not have stopped the massive
surge of water racing down the hills to the valleys and on to the town, but it
would have prevented the tons of water stored there from increasing the swell.
Who had benefited? Clearly, no one, But fingers were being pointed and the
hatred became only too tangible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">All those gifted with the Seeds of Ammon sensed danger
ahead. But their powers appeared to be fading. They were far from the oasis at
Siwah, far from where the Oracle’s temple kept alive the cult and nurtured the
soothsayers. Fear made them vulnerable. Martha knew it but was powerless to do
anything about it. Only the child appeared to be fully under the Oracle’s
influence. Her eyes still staring, her body still.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Ronald Pickman had lost everything but his wife,
family, car and caravan, in the flood. His shop had been utterly destroyed, and
with it his business. His insurance had run out and, instead of renewing it
straight away, he’d taken his wife and family to the Costa del Sol. He knew all
about the Oracle business and saw it as some sort of hocus pocus to hide what
was really going on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“That damn woman’s been against my store ever since it
opened. She petitioned against late hours to sell alcohol. And supported the
Olde Tearoom against us taking over their premises. This is a personal
vendetta.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Don’t you think you’re taking this too personally?” said
his wife Hilda. “We’re not the only ones suffering.” She looked around the caravan
they had just returned from Spain. “We’re lucky to still have this, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our lives</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes, and just the clothes we stand up in! Okay, she may not
be responsible for the rain, but she lives near enough to the dam to see it was
blocked. Maybe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she</i> and her buddies
blocked it. Oracle of Ammon? Huh, anything to get in the papers. She’ll be on
TV next… warning everyone of the end of the world. She’s a menace to society.
She wants stopping.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’m going out,” said Hilda. “Our store may be a write-off
but Lily’s tearoom can be salvaged. I’ll give her a hand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“What? Over my dead body!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“If necessary,” Hilda said, and, slipping on muddy
wellingtons and a plastic cape, she walked out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">In the stone barn of her smallholding, Martha
gathered together those who had been blessed with the Seeds of Ammon. She
sensed something terrible was about to happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“In the town there is much agitation, we must be on our
guard.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Why don’t we go to the police?” asked Jake, looking even
frailer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“And say what? That people in the town are planning to harm
us? Actually, the vibes come from one man in particular. Watch out for Ronald
Pickman. His hatred flows in an aura so strong it is visible to my eyes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“And mine,” said a small piping voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Martha looked at the thin child who’d stood with her at the
Celtic cross. “Anna, you must keep out of that man’s sight. He is dangerous.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes, I know. He’s a bad man. But he doesn’t frighten me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Nor me,” said Jake. “What can he do to an old man who is
ready for death? But Anna must be protected. People are afraid of her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“I don’t need protecting,” Anna said vehemently. “Ammon will
shield me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“Faith is a fine thing, but we must be cautious.” Martha did
not want to subdue a child’s faith, nor an old man’s certainty, but neither did
she want to see harm come to those who had spoken at the cross. The Oracle had
faded within her but maybe in the child, Ammon was still strong. “I have said
enough. You have all been warned.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Rain had ceased, when darkness fell over the
drowned town of Eden, Ronald Pickman slipped on his black Burberry coat that
always travelled with him, and crept out of his caravan. He rummaged inside the
boot of his car, grinning at his thoughts. At least he’d driven his Jaguar away
before the flood arrived. What’s more it looked like he would be getting a new
one to replace it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Anger overpowering all sense of moral restraint, Pickman
carefully made his way to Martha’s place. He unscrewed the cap of a can and
poured petrol through the letterbox and over both front and back doors. He then
smashed a window by the front door and threw the half-empty can inside, the
contents spilling over furniture and carpet. He stood well back and took out
his lighter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The voice of Hilda sounded just behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">“What on earth are you doing, Ron?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Shocked, he turned around, dropping the lighter. A line of
flame ran to the house and licked its way through the window. The can blew up.
Ron staggered backwards. Hilda screamed — burning debris had set her hair
alight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">From nowhere, the child appeared before them. She pointed to
Hilda. Mesmerised, Pickman stood back as the flames on his wife’s hair
vanished. The child then pointed to a sandbag by the front door. The bag split
open, Sand poured out and followed the line of the child’s pointing finger to
inside the cottage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">As flames disappeared, Martha and Jake arrived with buckets.
Neither showed signs of surprise. Pickman grabbed his wife’s hand and they
disappeared into the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Martha wrote down the bizarre happenings that had taken
place in the Vale of Eden. The evening of the fire, she had been consulting
with Jake when they each received a premonition of events at her cottage.
Pickman had been arrested and lost his wife as well as his freedom. Hilda had
been more than willing to testify. The part Anna played was kept out of it. Who
would believe it anyway?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Few newspapers mentioned the prophetic warnings. They had
enough of horrors and dramatic rescues to report than to dabble in speculative
events. The two pensioners could well be senile, even if they did assist in
putting out the fire. They did not seem able to predict the time of the next
bus, never mind a storm. As for the child, sure she looked odd with those big
eyes, thin body and pale skin, but, saying nothing, she seemed as dim as she
looked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRlIsqVSWu0rt4rk3N7BZKg9NejmnxHH4T5ubJPi-t19lodFJRrYJvFM1brD25p_p973Nod9oHnViJQbvZDMEA357OmYjdEqQohRHaRBYyS4bRgYd57CrZufvCaPaK26lCPJmS78gJHo/s1600/SDC14917.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRlIsqVSWu0rt4rk3N7BZKg9NejmnxHH4T5ubJPi-t19lodFJRrYJvFM1brD25p_p973Nod9oHnViJQbvZDMEA357OmYjdEqQohRHaRBYyS4bRgYd57CrZufvCaPaK26lCPJmS78gJHo/s320/SDC14917.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN-GB">Wisdom came to Anna as her psychokinetic powers strengthened.
Prophesying could wait. In her mind she could see the dawn of Armageddon. Her
powers would be needed. In ten years she intended to travel to Egypt and draw
on the power of the Oracle of Siwah. For now, she would be the quiet
schoolgirl. Even so, Anna could not resist an occasional use of her
psychokinetic powers. But those are stories to be told later.</span>Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-31746389829492496202012-06-28T03:45:00.000-07:002012-06-28T03:45:29.199-07:00What You Can Do With a Tree Stump<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mziMrtrzAnXLNnOeODH7dZYTFfN4ccF2Qt6gnSpo7E8t508nf6kOAtnV7FcNqyTtx4bFledH0zej6kbcTGYN2Pt9cJ02rSz-7g6_UVOFbHx-L7YGqWrKOC1e-Vg3fUxQO52lsPtw6Ac/s1600/SDC14923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mziMrtrzAnXLNnOeODH7dZYTFfN4ccF2Qt6gnSpo7E8t508nf6kOAtnV7FcNqyTtx4bFledH0zej6kbcTGYN2Pt9cJ02rSz-7g6_UVOFbHx-L7YGqWrKOC1e-Vg3fUxQO52lsPtw6Ac/s320/SDC14923.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What can you do with a
tree stump?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We had a 90’ Leylandii
tree growing in our front garden. It was a kind of landmark when looking for
our house. It was a beautiful tree with elegant branches spreading and curving
upwards. It also kept sunlight from large chunks of the garden and neighbouring
premises, plus the lower branch spread over the drive and prevented vans from
backing up when delivering goods to the house. Eventually, we decided to have
it cut down, never mind the expense. But we decided to keep an 8’ stump. We are
glad we did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6oIlC9qEZYJZBvVpi7fINUlf5iYyZfOtVBGCWttcET5f2DohUOOEmeb3V-15RczTdjo2f24hBR2kC7u7fV2RBNLjpQidCPkjz_kYUOZCZXJC809SzET6A0N9VY6YQbbL4IYdcw1Irpxs/s1600/SDC14934.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6oIlC9qEZYJZBvVpi7fINUlf5iYyZfOtVBGCWttcET5f2DohUOOEmeb3V-15RczTdjo2f24hBR2kC7u7fV2RBNLjpQidCPkjz_kYUOZCZXJC809SzET6A0N9VY6YQbbL4IYdcw1Irpxs/s320/SDC14934.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At the bottom of the
stump I planted two kinds of Ivies<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>— one with broad green leaves that has yellowish splashes of colour, and
one with delightful variegated leaves. I also planted a Winter Jasmine, a
Clematis and a highly scented, climbing rose with prolific clusters of creamy
flowers. In a niche I planted a common fern. All have taken. The stump is heavy
with delightful plants throughout the year. And where once was only shade and a
few straggly weeds, we have Camellias and other shrubs. A poorly-growing Yew is
now growing into a shapely tree, which we have to keep pruned. The photographs
tell their own story!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-16952385469928314702012-04-19T01:56:00.000-07:002012-04-19T01:56:47.190-07:00Spring… Beauty and the Beast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJDPd8AStcTjSDant6y_HzhpuRApKVRoi77cyNR8MvyO8OabPwZrdfLnsCj_6Dxchb3AZSUrJnKu9lsq5Bh9Dsof1-n6zsDKkAU3rejkh67h0jbDLgz-cbIH2BG6GNOCh-XdID5nhP_s/s1600/SDC14848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJDPd8AStcTjSDant6y_HzhpuRApKVRoi77cyNR8MvyO8OabPwZrdfLnsCj_6Dxchb3AZSUrJnKu9lsq5Bh9Dsof1-n6zsDKkAU3rejkh67h0jbDLgz-cbIH2BG6GNOCh-XdID5nhP_s/s320/SDC14848.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It's nearly four weeks since I posted photographs of the garden. Spring had arrived and now it is blooming lovely. Some blossom is no more and others are replacing it in abundance. The Magnolia is always a graceful monument to the season and our many Camellia shrubs have never been better. The Azaleas are preparing to outdo the rest, with the Rhododendrons close behind. Plenty of other flowers and shrubs too are coming out, while others wait until later on to fully reveal their beauty.<br />
And yet a beast lurks among my pretty maidens. In fact, a number of them. The hard-leafed evergreen plants — particularly Camellias and Rhododendrons (about 50 plants) — are becoming affected with sooty mould Cushion Scale. It is all over the garden. Something to do with climate change? Other bugs are less obvious. The lawn is mostly moss. So much needs doing. We can allow 'woodland' plants to grow among the shrubs, the more objectionable ones are weeded out. No problem there. But, unfortunately, we are not getting any younger to deal with all the work involved with the major 'beasts' . Decisions have to be made...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFNT8ItEFwxa6VzxxDgwzHNwF1D3lp0VsgQG3YAxHunwo7O635dVzuimNnZZrGkcVQBxmMt5mU1-4V-GtA5X52Q02X-J7ZublTNK9_89khhFUv8qZoXTeBNH_l3nwDnGEjeSAXzB2RJo/s1600/SDC14855.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFNT8ItEFwxa6VzxxDgwzHNwF1D3lp0VsgQG3YAxHunwo7O635dVzuimNnZZrGkcVQBxmMt5mU1-4V-GtA5X52Q02X-J7ZublTNK9_89khhFUv8qZoXTeBNH_l3nwDnGEjeSAXzB2RJo/s320/SDC14855.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGvwux0MzmpLINkdflqeHnPKzkmARg1u9JuN5akecJo4__O0NAlB_01S9Bnt_IrcdinIckh3KxJl56royD6LQqUEjxNch2dz2sTNLJjDbgNrNc5bHsEI19nobftRoMVlJChFhUj2eivo/s1600/SDC14841.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGvwux0MzmpLINkdflqeHnPKzkmARg1u9JuN5akecJo4__O0NAlB_01S9Bnt_IrcdinIckh3KxJl56royD6LQqUEjxNch2dz2sTNLJjDbgNrNc5bHsEI19nobftRoMVlJChFhUj2eivo/s320/SDC14841.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-62308042116278301212012-03-26T10:04:00.000-07:002012-03-26T10:04:18.656-07:00Spring Has Arrived!We returned from a four night break (part of it visiting Derbyshire where we had our honeymoon 59 years ago) and found that spring had truly sprung in our garden!<br />
While we were away we visited lovely places — Carsington Reservoir, Belper Riverside gardens, Buxton Park, Monsel Trail, Attenborough Nature Reserve, Wollaton Park, Chatsworth Garden Centre. Adding up the miles we did a fair bit of walking for a pair of wrinklies.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSPqvisDRByXci9A-s2z6uc4OrWK5bgpR_rfIPBj1VXzGUGCvkumJQ9AyAY5ihFavdhi3YjNKwBmshtwQFVDOJ-TgHYv_bmow7k9fcugjw3GnlOww7tZyvblqi3M_qdm-KmpwqgKuo0_o/s1600/SDC14821.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSPqvisDRByXci9A-s2z6uc4OrWK5bgpR_rfIPBj1VXzGUGCvkumJQ9AyAY5ihFavdhi3YjNKwBmshtwQFVDOJ-TgHYv_bmow7k9fcugjw3GnlOww7tZyvblqi3M_qdm-KmpwqgKuo0_o/s320/SDC14821.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The weather could not have been better. Not too hot and not too bright. Now we are in bright sunshine, bad for my eyes but lovely to see everyone looking so cheerful. And it is really great to see our garden blossoming, even if we do have a serious problem with sooty mould to deal with!<br />
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</div>Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-81428644536821225732012-02-06T07:53:00.000-08:002012-02-08T11:41:36.667-08:00A Lovely Day For a FuneralA Lovely Day For a Funeral — a funeral for a lovely lady!<br />
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It is little more than a week ago that I was visiting this lady in hospital. And now I shall be attending her funeral. Will it be a bright celebration of a life well lived? I hope so, because although she will be greatly missed and many will be grieving, not least her adoring husband and family, this is a lady whose long life never grew dim — until her strength was fully exhausted.<br />
The sun is shining brightly today. Snow is forecast for tomorrow, but we live each moment as it comes. I hope all present will sing out in joyful tones and the address reflect the pleasure my friend gave to so many people. <br />
Funerals should be celebrations, too many are doleful reminders of ‘mortal toil’ and our ‘sinful state’. Yes, maybe they are good occasions to be reminded that life is short and to make the most of what is left to us and to use that time wisely, but every new morning is a precious gift not to be wasted. Life is NOW, yesterday has gone, tomorrow is unknown. <br />
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A Day Later…<br />
A Celebration of the life of ‘ever young’ Margaret Faith Cottis (31st March — 25th January 2012). <br />
AMAZING! The funeral could not have been arranged better, and a lot of people turned up at the Crem, and afterwards, to remember and celebrate a life well lived.<br />
Entry — Bach, Air on the G String.<br />
Words of Welcome and Introduction. <br />
Thoughts of family members read by themselves or by the Pastor conducting the funeral — highly emotional, spilling out of love, thankfulness and grief, so right for the occasion.<br />
Time of silent reflection.<br />
Committal.<br />
Music for exit — Gary Lombardo, Enjoy Yourself…<br />
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The curtains were left open so that we could view the coffin with the beautiful landscape picture painted on the side, a view not unlike where Faith and her husband used to sit together to look out over Morecambe bay. How fitting!<br />
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The reception room was filled with relatives and friends — including many bikers (Faith and her hubby were both avid bikers and campers) and pub quiz ‘mates’ well known to many. Lots of chatter and lots of eating, ending in a pub quiz! It was almost as if Faith was there putting down all the answers, for it is certain her general knowledge was incredible, even as she entered her eighties.<br />
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Certainly, it had been an emotional time in the Crem but it was all genuine. No hypocrisy or stress on ‘religion’ and yet it was also a spiritual occasion where peace and joy reigned supreme. And the time afterwards, so much part of the couple’s life and loves. Surely it was a day for Faith’s loved ones, especially her strength and stay — her devoted hubby — to remember with joy and thankfulness.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4U8QGFa-NwcuUu3hHtmTmeP7zAsbdznnIBbwnU0obN-70dRmWKpcpGNakNi1iDejyS9sH27fwrBCOGytiKe52MXJrQpVHcZaRJXbw7uQeoG5Rq-MUrWrLTsFq9c5XuazudpOfw-kpoVk/s1600/SDC14715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4U8QGFa-NwcuUu3hHtmTmeP7zAsbdznnIBbwnU0obN-70dRmWKpcpGNakNi1iDejyS9sH27fwrBCOGytiKe52MXJrQpVHcZaRJXbw7uQeoG5Rq-MUrWrLTsFq9c5XuazudpOfw-kpoVk/s320/SDC14715.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Yes, it had been a lovely day for a lovely funeral — the following day is marked with frozen snow and winter chill. But we can sit back and relax in warm memories that will remain with us for a long time.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRPHPWlXLq5TE4jqF4rmrUIeR5xcDCpjPmlKwdRMr9JnpYAGy-lCRXY7GfdKGoeUVNOeTg97oFQj1Mssd7NEQ0OMCes8WoFnjJr4lQtGAkSMok_mDyE8ylsYjE3qb0A6vUXsFVXVtvMo/s1600/Mum%2527s+80th%252C+4x4+96dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRPHPWlXLq5TE4jqF4rmrUIeR5xcDCpjPmlKwdRMr9JnpYAGy-lCRXY7GfdKGoeUVNOeTg97oFQj1Mssd7NEQ0OMCes8WoFnjJr4lQtGAkSMok_mDyE8ylsYjE3qb0A6vUXsFVXVtvMo/s400/Mum%2527s+80th%252C+4x4+96dpi.jpg" width="384" /></a></div>Faith was always smiling or laughing. She could always see the funny side of most things in life!<br />
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The light of her life will always shine in the hearts and minds of those who loved her.Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-56368285842954515632012-01-12T13:00:00.000-08:002012-01-12T13:22:27.476-08:00Flowers that speak of warmer days — flowering NOW in January!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcHLdICsnY-KMKD2167QTfcSvkPbHEeCo-0oiQBYsNNH6WW8Zbmr3MbQ7Fk7D7APrEIbejjTLi2T4-cs40xSsbnvTbd5JLMJF2vM0ZCqgwQAi2IYM-9Txc-XoDJsQDJch85mZL7wZonQ/s1600/SDC14696.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcHLdICsnY-KMKD2167QTfcSvkPbHEeCo-0oiQBYsNNH6WW8Zbmr3MbQ7Fk7D7APrEIbejjTLi2T4-cs40xSsbnvTbd5JLMJF2vM0ZCqgwQAi2IYM-9Txc-XoDJsQDJch85mZL7wZonQ/s320/SDC14696.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
We have a large garden full of shrubs and trees with lawns that speak more of weeds than grass (even if mowed and kept neat!)At this time of year it is often covered in snow but today it is sunny and not too cold to be outside. I always marvel how we see things, such as flowers, that are small and partly hidden by the vastness of greenery. It is these little gems that I have been photographing today just to remind me of the blessings we enjoy all the year round. Maybe in a few weeks time we will have a blanket of snow. Such is our English weather!<br />
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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPazwTt5t6iOgngE5ua6rM-_5cicBA9swl6kT7cFmKoDHMSYaRPhmo3mghiU8SATUbACfZzphgH3SJD3L9i-9KtYKGtBsDlDZq0Q5tntNCptIMtG6zNjMpN8kLL9FytwBpNtMVL-AJEog/s1600/SDC14690.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPazwTt5t6iOgngE5ua6rM-_5cicBA9swl6kT7cFmKoDHMSYaRPhmo3mghiU8SATUbACfZzphgH3SJD3L9i-9KtYKGtBsDlDZq0Q5tntNCptIMtG6zNjMpN8kLL9FytwBpNtMVL-AJEog/s320/SDC14690.JPG" /></a></div>Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-21612870490787198502012-01-06T08:00:00.000-08:002012-01-06T08:02:28.844-08:00A Winter's Day at Aldingham. (CUMBRIA)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXUZ5ypQXJk2bCF02rY4AQirLhJY54lAjZkrS1jjftLiWhvWjyk5PMGj1eSZrgW0FY-oAktAUANDnMKTM9ISnnUeQzYhKDhG9Zf6iXVJgPAwFNnTmAdA8nfl0Wp2CBIfhS3UvpbGpdmpg/s1600/SDC14679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXUZ5ypQXJk2bCF02rY4AQirLhJY54lAjZkrS1jjftLiWhvWjyk5PMGj1eSZrgW0FY-oAktAUANDnMKTM9ISnnUeQzYhKDhG9Zf6iXVJgPAwFNnTmAdA8nfl0Wp2CBIfhS3UvpbGpdmpg/s320/SDC14679.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>While I visit the nursing home at Aldingham (I have written about that on my <a href="http://gladyshobson.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Wrinkly Writers</a> blog) my hubby who drives me there, sits reading in the car. Last week he took these photographs of the waves beating on the shore. We certainly have had some wild weather lately!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgNZpe8PfP3EP-NCVFrz15EMbuGOGW1A_wPgSh22Xl2066pcKYhRcGvZK7qv4J48cVMyBSTslOyIEeooVHXQC9_r7VIa7wijXEuyn5K0HQ_MMgOA3m_9zOUVY1oyaBVQMdFb2q1nd4Ic/s1600/SDC14678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgNZpe8PfP3EP-NCVFrz15EMbuGOGW1A_wPgSh22Xl2066pcKYhRcGvZK7qv4J48cVMyBSTslOyIEeooVHXQC9_r7VIa7wijXEuyn5K0HQ_MMgOA3m_9zOUVY1oyaBVQMdFb2q1nd4Ic/s320/SDC14678.JPG" /></a></div>Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-8100303673289920112011-12-14T07:34:00.000-08:002011-12-14T08:09:44.566-08:00Gillian Brock — Lost, found. and lost again…<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqoaovvPigvH7VcYEONiOhdim285DdZiA9dKuGe4DmKXImVp3yqfTZ11-R-bV-iB6qm59k0HG1ZDI-gVr2rtTPMjP8wdQg6pUyyNTfGA4nO0Apf4UMVYH7IezwG_08dGji3J6MnlaLv4s/s1600/DSCF0603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqoaovvPigvH7VcYEONiOhdim285DdZiA9dKuGe4DmKXImVp3yqfTZ11-R-bV-iB6qm59k0HG1ZDI-gVr2rtTPMjP8wdQg6pUyyNTfGA4nO0Apf4UMVYH7IezwG_08dGji3J6MnlaLv4s/s320/DSCF0603.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gillian, in centre, explaining something to her Aunt Phyllis</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL0_66ljjQJnPh__OBiASUPO2x066dq6uxVOrYok0S0IgO_eEku2O-kksObj5CxHdsr7j9lT_2EDO6Yo1aKMWenXJxggIgTdpdN9EHcchtlBoaPA-USmO1HaeIpmrThsWXijNZ0bNAHAM/s1600/DSCF0608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL0_66ljjQJnPh__OBiASUPO2x066dq6uxVOrYok0S0IgO_eEku2O-kksObj5CxHdsr7j9lT_2EDO6Yo1aKMWenXJxggIgTdpdN9EHcchtlBoaPA-USmO1HaeIpmrThsWXijNZ0bNAHAM/s320/DSCF0608.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gillian talking to her cousin Linda. Both photos taken<br />
when Gillian was here in England four years ago.</td></tr>
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</div>Gillian Brock — <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lost to us when a child, found and now lost again… my dear niece, Gillian.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Among the Christmas cards arriving through the letterbox last week we had a letter from a lady saying that my niece Gillian had died on August 17<sup>th</sup>. The neighbour is opening Gillian’s mail so as to find friends and relatives who are unlikely to have heard about the death. We had put a Christmas letter in with Gillian’s card. I rang the lady who had given us the news. She told me that Gillian had not been seen out the day of her death, unusual because she took her dog out regularly. The police were called because only the dog could be heard inside the house. Not wanting to break in and destroy the door and locks, the fire brigade was called and they got in through the roof. Gillian, fully dressed, was found on the floor — dead. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Gillian had been planning her 60<sup>th</sup> birthday. Not old by today’s standards.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have been informing Gillian’s relatives on my side of the family.<br />
I googled ‘Gillian Brock Died August 17<sup>th</sup> Australia’ and straight away I was in a position to find more information about those in the UK who knew about her death. A web site called Heaven Address had messages, ‘flowers’ and such, displaying the names of those who sent them. I added my tribute and uploaded a photograph of Gillian talking to a cousin and her aunts — Phyllis and Gladys. It had been taken when Gillian visited here in 2007. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I wrote above here, ‘lost to us when a child’ and this needs explaining.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am the youngest of six children. My brother Jack (Gillian's father) was the eldest. He was in the Air Force and met his wife Peggy when she was in the ATS. The first we (at home) heard of her, and of the marriage, was when he brought Peggy home (I think it was around 1948). I was still at the art school, two of my sisters were married and had homes of their own, the other sister, aged seventeen, worked in a factory and we shared a room at home. My other brother was at the local university and lived at home. My dad, struggling to keep on his feet due to a crippling disease, was not a well man. My mum had cleaning jobs to bring in a few pennies. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The housing shortage was much worse than it is today, after all, we had just been through WW2 and everything was still rationed — houses were no exception. The newly-weds took over the front room. They had both left the forces. I seem to remember Peggy was soon pregnant.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I liked Peggy but my mum thought she made the most of her pregnancy and led an idle life. My mum had never had the luxury of taking things easy at any time of her life and, I think, rather resented having an extra workload, especially after the baby was born. Looking at things from Peggy’s angle, it could be that she did not want to interfere with my mum’s running of the house. Washday was particularly stressful — no electric ‘helpers’ in those days, at least not in homes like ours. I do remember Peggy making us all some lovely tomato sandwiches. Mum had her fast-moving routines from getting up after five in the morning, lighting the fire for hot water and starting the day’s chores. Everybody had a cooked breakfast in spite of rationing.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Crunch time came when Jack came home from work one day to find the baby had no clean nappies. I think Peggy was drying a wet one in front of the fire. Peggy evidently complained that Mum said she couldn’t wash them because there was no hot water, or some such. Jack complained to my mum in the presence of my dad. Dad was not pleased with my mum (he could be pretty horrid to my mum when the mood took him) but Mum was annoyed with Peggy. Mum had not told Peggy she could not use the water, only not to wash the nappies in the bathroom at that time because it took the water from downstairs. Likely she wanted Peggy to wait until mum had finished washing and mangling the family wash. Anyway, the result was that mum raced to Jack and Peggy’s room, collected all the nappies and washed them in the kitchen sink. Not so long after this, a van arrived and Jack, Peggy and baby went off with all their baggage without any sort of warning. Jack had been quite close to Dad, joking together and both of them smoking and enjoying a drink. My mum did none of those things. I rather think he always blamed my mum for Jack's swift departure without a goodbye.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">They were now living in a cottage that went with Jack’s new job (running a garage) in another county some miles away. I, along with the others, must have kept in touch because I recall visiting their home so they could meet my husband-to-be. We went on our motorbike and took sandwiches for our tea. I feel sure that they were pleased to see us. Jack took us into the parlour and called to Peggy, ‘Come and see who’s picnicking in our front room.’ We met their lovely family — Jacky, Dennis and Gillian.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">They all went off to Australia on an assisted passage. We wrote to their new address but I did not have a reply. When my dad died, my mum sent a telegram but still no reply. They moved and, with no address, we could no longer be in touch.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I used to pray there would be a reconciliation before my mother died, but it did not happen. I tried googling Jack’s full name adding ‘Australia’. To my surprise something came up — an announcement of his death. His wife’s maiden name was mentioned so there could be no doubt I had the correct person. He died about the time that my mother did. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">So was that it? Not at all, unknown to me Gillian was doing a family tree search at the same time as my eldest son took up the hobby. I was able to write to Gillian and we kept contact through emails. Then she came over here four years ago and I was able to give her a signet ring that had been passed on to me by my Aunt Gladys. I too used to be a GB before my marriage. I last wrote to her in July and wondered why I had not had a reply. Her death never entered my mind.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I do not know where her brothers are. When I saw Gillian she did not seem to know either. In actual fact she did not care where they were as she had broken with them. So sad. I don’t expect I will ever see jack’s sons again but no doubt that is the way they prefer things to be.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Goodbye Gillian. I did not know you for very long but we had a good, if short, relationship.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-1268461665028875052011-11-11T11:16:00.000-08:002011-11-11T11:16:35.514-08:00Old Dog, New Tricks?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwei5XmmJ-PK8mjax15W6MiJAMvhC3ef9Lv8aDzfWYms0lkJ89qPI-PBc0IGydDmNdUuEB3o3ifJmoTwJtF9A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>A while ago I thought I would have a go at trying to make a video for each of my books. I started with Awakening Love. I could not slow it down anymore and so it is rather hurried. Perhaps I should have cut down the text? I went back to it but couldn't make any changes. I tried making another but seemed to have forgotten how I made the first one. I guess I had not grasped the steps and order necessary. Anyway, I have put it on here, poor though it may be. I'm not sure it will even work! I have clicked the start but a message comes up:ERROR PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.<br />
<div>Trial and error is okay but I guess you really need a little help until methods are grasped. It is hard to teach an old dog new tricks and it can be very tiring. Now I have discovered that there is something definitely missing. Looking at the Html version there is nothing there but the title. So all that I have got on this site is a single page. The only way it will work is if I click the video on my desktop.<br />
<br />
I can just hear the clever clogs laughing their heads off! Clearly, there is something I failed to do when I made the video. The 'works' are in this computer somewhere otherwise it would not work on the desktop.I wonder if I can get hold of a five-year old to show me what to do? </div><div><br />
</div><div>Wait a minute — there is a message below saying: Uploading Video and it says I can't close this window until it is finished. I'll come back later...</div><div>A couple of hours later and still nothing! I give up!</div><br />
DONE! No, not by me! Son came home and used his skills. Yes, poor quality video, no music and it goes too fast but...<br />
<br />
For details of this novel and my other books — go to my <a href="http://hobsonsbooks.blogspot.com/">author blog</a>Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-75432396930011277292011-09-09T09:39:00.000-07:002011-09-09T09:43:20.274-07:00The trials and glories of Class 3Z<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">The trials and glories of Class 3Z<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">Looking back thirty years<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>Seaview Comprehensive School. It is Friday, and the final lesson of the day. In fact it is also the last day of the summer term. Only a few classes are taking place in the annex at this particular time and the building is quiet and almost eerie. I sit in the sanctuary of the staff room thinking about my final art lesson for the dreaded 3Z — that is a class of third year boys, aged thirteen to fourteen, most of whom have a reputation for bad behaviour.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>It is rather unfortunate that the school has been divided in the way it has: the first letters of the alphabet for ex-grammar school children, and the lower letters of the alphabet for ex-secondary school children. The present first year intake has fully Comprehensive schooling, at least so we are told, but we all know that class setting divides the brighter from the less so, at least for all academic subjects. Some parents are not pleased. They may have been promised that children already attending grammar school will continue in their groups until leaving but their siblings have to follow the Comprehensive path to achieve any glittering prizes of success. But the ex-secondary children are not happy with the move either. Having listened to them I know many fear rejection. Unfortunately, in some cases, they have been proved right.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>My thinking is that the ex-secondary schoolchildren have a raw deal. Having heard what some ex-grammar-school teachers think of them, I tend to side with the kids. I taught at the secondary school in question and am aware of the problem children, but many are from difficult homes. It so happens, I was a junior-school teacher a few years ago and know about the backgrounds of quite a few of the youngsters. But I did not know any of the boys of 3Z when I started teaching them, so we had to get to know one another. That has not been easy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>To attend their art lesson, they have to walk across the playing fields from the main buildings. The annex is single story, part of which is built on a hill, a long corridor with a number of short flights of stairs take you around bends and up to the top two classrooms, one of which is my art room, the only one occupied on most days of the week. With no one to restrain them, quite often the boys fight on their way over. They have also been known to pick and eat the ‘magic mushrooms’ growing in the outer field. The first task is to get the boys settled and motivated, not easy for their last lesson of the day and week. And now it will be their last lesson of the year and also with me. I admit, part of me hopes they will all clear off home! Well, one thing for sure, I must be well prepared for their arrival.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>Over the year, I discovered that, once they had been taught the basics, it was better to allow them complete freedom of choice with me assisting where necessary, even if it was copying a picture of a semi-nude girl astride a motor bike! The boy had been surprised I had allowed him to do it, but I am delighted with the fantastic job he’d done. There will be no choice today. I have the room set out with single desks, papers and pencils. Easy to prepare, easy to clear up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>I hear the boys running up the steps, at least they are not fighting. I stand up as they enter the room, ready to count them and check them off in my register. I am also ready for any last day funny business. But something odd is happening. They all enter the room and sit down in silence, cross their arms and look at me. What’s more, every boy is present — present and silent. No shuffling, muttering, or even day-dreaming. I have their complete attention. They are all looking straight at me with sealed lips. What is going on? I ask them that very question.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">No answer.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">I repeat the question.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">The largest boy in the class, a usually quiet pupil who appears to have quite a lot of respect from the rest of the class, decides to answer my question.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">“Well, this is our last lesson with you, Miss. So we all decided to be well-behaved.’ He looks around the desks at the rest of the boys and adds with a clenched fist, “Or else!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">I am deeply moved. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">They prove to be as good as their word. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">During this quiet lesson, I see a note being passed around with a whisper to each person. I hope it is not going to be something to spoil their impeccable behaviour. Then a lad comes forward and says, “I expect you will throw it away but we all want you to have this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">I open the folded note. Each person has written his name. I am deeply touched. What a way to end the last day of term. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">I say, “You have given me the best present ever. I will always keep this gift. Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">Their beaming smiles tell me that maybe my teaching skills are not too bad. Surely something has been achieved with them? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">Every so often I come across that list of names and, with a warm glow, wonder what has become of each boy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-70378254473089963412011-08-17T11:38:00.000-07:002011-08-17T11:52:35.084-07:00We met on the Bus Part Five… Dress Design and Family Matters.
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkznlO0qW2x9hZ046iEgaT9C2Dwn3qL3rDlNljStRfBfojVcO-l6WxdQFq1qgdddGpl0UbE2jIsGhvtLWfPFIuDv8Jssmib_YqIdvwC8pYAXV2qYjn-qNiGs7P7rtbupI4f64Mh2PegM/s1600/SDC14433.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkznlO0qW2x9hZ046iEgaT9C2Dwn3qL3rDlNljStRfBfojVcO-l6WxdQFq1qgdddGpl0UbE2jIsGhvtLWfPFIuDv8Jssmib_YqIdvwC8pYAXV2qYjn-qNiGs7P7rtbupI4f64Mh2PegM/s320/SDC14433.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641897081720093010" /></a>
<br /> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We met on the Bus Part Five… Dress Design and Family Matters.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span>Things went remarkably smoothly in my new job. My sample-hand Hilda, who had stitched for me at the previous firm, settled in well too. So did all the girls who followed us and were taken on. I think the rest were employed by the lingerie business (housed on the top floor) that took over the space — including the offices and showroom — previously occupied by the firm we had worked for. I did not know it at the time but my skills were later to become a considerable influence in their wheel of fortune. Nor would I have guessed that it would lead to a broader field of design capability.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I was sent to London to view the up and coming trends. I met the buyers when they visited the showroom and became more familiar with the various firms who bought from us. During this time we moved to Loughborough where my husband worked. It was rather isolating for me. It was not the house I wanted either. I would have preferred a new-build bungalow just a short distance away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My husband thought the older houses were better built and this one had a good piece of land with it — 100 yards long with a lane at the bottom end. But it was a very narrow plot. My husband built a brick garage at the bottom of the garden, complete with inspection pit. He had to take electricity down to it too. Seven years later when we sold up to move to a detached house. Considering what we had done to the property — large brick garage, new fireplaces, tiling and such — we had gained nothing on the price we got for it. Meanwhile the new bungalows up the road had gained in price with little, if anything, having been done to them. This was a hard lesson to learn. But much had happened before we made that move and circumstances were such that the position of our first house turned out to be ideal.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Our first son was born a year after our move into our own home. I started working a few weeks after the birth with an agreement that I would work from home for two or three days of the week. Indeed it would not have paid me to have child care for a full week. The lady next door, with an eleven year-old girl of her own, adored children and was more than willing to look after our baby. With just part-time care it took a third of my salary, stoppages took another chunk and travelling yet another. Then I became pregnant again. I decided the only thing to do was go freelance. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Remarkably, it worked out that the firm I was already working for continued to pay me the same money for a set number of designs — I went in to see the designs through to completion. Through Freddie (already travelling for the Lingerie firm, which had taken over where I had worked before) I received orders for new designs and some pattern cutting, all of which required me to go in occasionally to see the designs through. This was hard work, non-stop effort on my part so as to keep my travelling to minimum. The boss was also known to come bustling in with a new task: “Leave that, I want this doing first.” I would be there so late that the boss often whipped me off to the station in his Jag so I did not miss the train — once jumping on while the train was moving! (I would have left it as my tight skirt was hindering me, but the porter opened a carriage door and pushed me inside, bags and all!) </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">My husband built me a wooden workshop, nicely fitted with a cutting bench, lockstitch and overlock machines, and a huge roll of Swedish craft paper, heater, fan and all things necessary for my new business. Windows along both long sides gave ample light as needed. My neighbour continued to look after my infant as needed. She also took it upon herself to do my cleaning! Nicely set up, I was able to find more work, a few odd jobs and a whole new assignment when a firm in Dudley asked me to do all their designing for housecoats and sleepwear. Anyone reading my book, Awakening Love, might think it impossible for a designer to work as hard and creatively as my main character June does. But it is based on my own experiences. I have even designed and made children’s clothes and wedding dresses, most of my mother’s clothes too. Our three sons wore clothes I had made for them until they reached Junior School level, where only school uniform was allowed. (Boys in short trousers until they were eleven!) My middle son suffered with chapped thighs in winter but he was in trouble when I made him wear trousers.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So things worked well. I was able to save a huge chunk of my earnings and we decided to buy a larger detached house, which was under construction on a new estate overlooking open countryside. When the time came for our move, I was pregnant with our third son.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We had a nasty experience less than two weeks before moving into our new home. My husband was taken ill. Our doctor brought him home from the surgery to pack a bag for an unspecified time in hospital and then drove him there. (Doctors did that sort of thing in those days — totally committed day or night!) We were in the middle of a very bad winter with frost deep into the ground. There was a blizzard when I walked down to the hospital that evening. When I arrived in the ward, I found his bed empty and remade — no sign of my hubby or any of his belongings. Panic! Had he died and his body taken away? No, he had been moved to another ward following an operation. Apparently his large blood loss had been due to a benign cause, so he was allowed home after a few days. Just as well as I could not have managed the move myself. Bad enough to have all the floors to scrub, but the pipes had frozen up and the boiler had to be started. The toilet in the back porch had frozen up to the rim, complete with paper and excrement left by the workmen!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I was not sorry to leave our first house. Just after our first son was born we had received a brick through our front room window where I often left my baby asleep in his pram. The police thought the brick attack had been boys fooling about, but we had no boys hanging about our area, which housed mostly older people. Later, I received an abusive phone call from a woman I did not know. We hardly knew anyone in that road, just our near kindly neighbours. It wasn’t until our eldest started school at five that we found out that we had other children in the street the same age as ours. With enclosed large back gardens I suppose we all lived mostly private lives. What a change when we were in our new home. Most of the residents were similar to us, and the boys were never short of others to play with. The parents soon got to know each other too and we had occasional coffee mornings, which helped us all settle in.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">It wasn’t long before some of my work dried up. The country had opened its doors to foreign imports and competition had become fierce. One firm closed its outwear department. Later the housecoat firm, which supplied a well-known chain store, either suffered the same fate or reduced its costs by creating their own designs, as had happened before I came on the scene. Actually, they had always taken three months to pay for each design collection, which is not a good indication of solvency. But the Lingerie firm I designed for, continued to require my services with no reduction. In fact they knew I ‘could deliver the goods’ and were keen to keep up our business relationship. I was always ready to oblige and I recall many an occasion when the director would drive to Loughborough with urgent work right up until the birth of my third son. I would get up as early as five in the morning to get a good start while everyone was in bed. The director would sit in a chair taking in the sun while I was in my shed finishing off his patterns!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I now had three young children to care for and I was in no rush to get more business. Our two eldest boys were at school when I saw an advert asking mothers to consider taking up teaching as a career. With one of my sons having problems with reading, I already had an interest in education and this seemed to be an ideal job for a mum with a family. Within a year I had taken an entrance test and soon started on a three-year course at the local College of Education. Little did we realise the problems that lay ahead — but that is another story!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The photographs are of designs I did in the early 1960’s. Housecoats and baby -doll pyjamas were popular. Nylon nightdresses were frilly and lacy. (So too slips, cami-knickers and petticoats.) </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpMW0gQLRKbF7qPAymHzKiM24apEV2dTPGN1xPTo6qek4SNRjOmkv3Ds41fy5apVlcEXX81HzuG6n2rOO4KzcfDwW36vOBgff3n60OZK4SUobBCKVNx0wlYCkvgMCfuGaZmujyQvWdVpg/s1600/SDC14437.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpMW0gQLRKbF7qPAymHzKiM24apEV2dTPGN1xPTo6qek4SNRjOmkv3Ds41fy5apVlcEXX81HzuG6n2rOO4KzcfDwW36vOBgff3n60OZK4SUobBCKVNx0wlYCkvgMCfuGaZmujyQvWdVpg/s320/SDC14437.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641897541394483842" /></a>The suit (from a 1960 advert) is a design I did for a Nottingham firm in 1960.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-28205501858187345932011-08-04T11:43:00.000-07:002011-08-04T11:49:50.304-07:00We Met On the Bus… Part Four Recognition and onwards…<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT3-9tUzTIJlMa-d0VYSX2o0cQyiRmABeef6iKuuwouSzPc7Ck0C5ykrScmj2OauWRetPK-tstIvey8vwnKDS_Q7zuMQJ1yF2FMDO3CvSDvNSrEE7X7IBEUMBqJrOC4B-qi_mYdItSj10/s1600/SDC11625.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT3-9tUzTIJlMa-d0VYSX2o0cQyiRmABeef6iKuuwouSzPc7Ck0C5ykrScmj2OauWRetPK-tstIvey8vwnKDS_Q7zuMQJ1yF2FMDO3CvSDvNSrEE7X7IBEUMBqJrOC4B-qi_mYdItSj10/s320/SDC11625.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637074443411856066" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8mkWP8HsZFkyWGiZSCh5mJn-dDnBlrmeMlZgPaf64Q8euR0lNMjKTJ1ulCpL0RoplI4DcjdNvTv1EvE5WB_BSJLZeoN6Sfnxngc4HklbhRDZio0YbSOpWLSE2bFmXMnbUMlYjQA7ssg/s1600/SDC11621.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8mkWP8HsZFkyWGiZSCh5mJn-dDnBlrmeMlZgPaf64Q8euR0lNMjKTJ1ulCpL0RoplI4DcjdNvTv1EvE5WB_BSJLZeoN6Sfnxngc4HklbhRDZio0YbSOpWLSE2bFmXMnbUMlYjQA7ssg/s320/SDC11621.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637074081075585426" /></a><br />We Met On the Bus… Part Four<br />Recognition and onwards…<br /><br />Things were going swimmingly, at least as regards work, home life was something different. Living in a bedsit lacks privacy. Sharing the bathroom with the rest of the family could be frustrating. Moreover my husband was at night classes most evenings and studying much of the time too. We still went to the cinema on Fridays and often visited his parents in Derbyshire on Sundays. With my mother washing for us, I did all of the household’s weekly ironing, which I did over three evenings. Cleaning didn’t take long and so I stitched and read books. No television in those days but we had a radio to listen to — but not when my hubby was studying.<br /><br />It was great being the only designer for the firm. I enjoyed going places with the traveller and meeting our buyers. Also meeting the various reps, who brought me samples of buttons and trimmings to look at, and order as appropriate. I was a vital cog in a well-oiled wheel. The orders came steadily in and no one was ever laid off. Most of the smooth working was down to the traveller — Freddie — even though the boss, who lived in Manchester, visited the factory several times a week. I have no idea what he did in the office on the ground floor but he had no influence upstairs in the huge workroom. There was also a sleeping partner — a smart-suited dapper man with neat facial hair — who dropped in a few times while I was there. I was once given the job of producing a certain garment worn at his ‘lodge’. I cut the pattern from one he brought with him. But the boss also had garments made, including pyjamas!<br /><br />Then the blow came. Our Manchester boss, a heavy drinker, became seriously ill. The business was sold out to the busy lingerie firm who had the top floor just above us. With a glowing testimonial from Freddie, I wrote to my first firm to see if they were in need of a designer. I was taken on with a rise in salary. Not only that, but my sample hand and half the workforce were taken on with me.<br /><br />So I was back to the firm where my career began, but no longer as a junior member of the team. At twenty-one I was regarded as a fully-fledged designer and, with the departure of one of the other designers, I had a decent office to work in. I had responsibility for designing for the younger end of the market. Freddie was travelling for the lingerie firm, and it was through him that I eventually became involved with them too.Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-41169488546502563342011-07-23T11:52:00.000-07:002011-07-23T12:00:54.726-07:00We Met On the Bus… Part Three... My new job — Designer at last!We Met On the Bus… Part Three<br />My new job — Designer at last!<br /><br />It just so happened that the traveller for my new firm knew the bosses at my first one, they traded with some of the same firms in the wholesale trade. I did wonder if this guy had anything to do with my new appointment. I soon got on very well indeed with the traveller as he was the main stay of their business, both in wholesale and retail. He knew the right people. When sunray pleated skirts were all the rage, he knew where to get the pleating done as well as lovely embroidery by a firm close by. Leather belts too. I would get samples sent of embroidery suitable for dress bodices, which I could use with the sunray skirts. So it was more a matter of good pattern cutting and overall style than cleverness of design. Those dresses went straight to the retail within weeks of samples being done. I met the top man at the local C&A and a few days later he was shown the new design samples. His reaction was “Has that little girl done these?” He was quite impressed and a good order made. <br />New samples were done for the traveller to take around the country. Sales were good. Occasionally rolls of fabric would be bought at a knock-down price and I would have the job of designing something simple, cheap but attractive, to make a good profit. I recall a simple striped blouse made in black and white striped silky material. It had a black narrow velvet ribbon to finish off a fly-away-collared neckline. The rolls of material were used up and every blouse was sold. My quick response to the traveller’s requests meant I got on very well there.<br />I met reps who came selling buttons and accessories and, most of all, the buyers who bought our designs. This sometimes entailed me going to London with the traveller to meet these important people, so that I could answer their queries concerning required changes and generally use my knowledge and design ability. One firm that had its own label to put on the styles bought from us, had a really snooty buyer (a lady heavily made up to hide — unsuccessfully — wrinkling skin) who treated me with complete disdain. Our traveller hung our dresses along a rail for them to look at. The woman went along the rail, dropping to the floor most of the samples. Then she examined the rest. She picked out a two-piece that had velvet set into the collar and pocket flaps. I knew that the model was cut too tightly on the lay to allow for ‘give-away’ changes, so much so that even the shoulder pads had to be joined. But she asked how much cheaper the garment would be if we used self-fabric instead of velvet for the trimming.<br />Being honest, I said I thought it would make little or no difference, as more of the self-fabric would be required.<br />She sniffed deeply, looked down her nose and said, “It must make SOME difference, Ducky!”<br />The traveller intervened and said that something could be arranged if that is what they wanted to do. <br />Anyway, we got an order there and elsewhere — a very good multi-store clothing business, which treated me as the young person I was, but with the respect due to me as the seller’s designer. I was still only twenty but learning fast.<br />Since our marriage, my husband and I had been living at my parents’ house, using an upstairs bedroom as a bed-sit. We were to be there for three years. Not a very happy arrangement but places to rent were few in number and very expensive when any became available. Council property was reserved for those with children and on a points system. Since we did not want children until we had a house of our own, we were doomed to always be on the bottom of the very long housing list. <br />My hubby was still attending Evening Classes several times a week and studying at other times. I spent three nights per week ironing for the whole household, as my mother did our washing for us. No TV, of course, but we went to the cinema once a week and I read books or sewed. On Sundays we had a ride on the motor-bike (no springing in those days!) perhaps to his old home or maybe visit a relative. But we lived economically on my wages and saved as much as possible until we had enough cash for a deposit on a house. During this time, I travelled on the bus and my husband on the train. <br />As far as work was concerned, things were going very well indeed by the time Christmas came along. To top it all I found I had two weeks extra pay for a Christmas bonus, something that had never happened to me before then. Not only money but also a huge box of chocolates to go with the bonus! Such appreciation! Alas, I did not know what lay on the horizon!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBahlEtoIz8dxfW8X2DEDJG7IHSzdzv8VoFuyNleTF1LreVFJ_WCF7WT_J0uo0tsgZvW2mOhDownHRP3phFdsN-Qg0L3vNyVJs01IC9xDd054NnPHfPrELMQaJVe1BuQfsA8qPVoyLMGs/s1600/SDC14408.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 196px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBahlEtoIz8dxfW8X2DEDJG7IHSzdzv8VoFuyNleTF1LreVFJ_WCF7WT_J0uo0tsgZvW2mOhDownHRP3phFdsN-Qg0L3vNyVJs01IC9xDd054NnPHfPrELMQaJVe1BuQfsA8qPVoyLMGs/s320/SDC14408.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632623387254680498" /></a><br /><br />The picture is just a rough idea of what the early sunray dresses with embroidered bodices looked like. (About 1953-4 onwards) These were made in black finely-knitted woollen fabric. The machine embroidery was of a thread that looked like beaded work when completed.<br /><br />More to come…Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-77225321727756949532011-07-19T08:31:00.000-07:002011-07-19T09:10:25.819-07:00KILROY and ALICEWhy do we do it?<br />Do what?<br />Push ourselves beyond our inclinations…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFaaKYjx1RFFUdf51njiuJCBz5zffv5zYH_umaHTotAuIBwaR38LBmJ1qoLIp390vXGOkiRR4btrt3A4KTnlpXsmNgz4fbvyMT241ABJn7faKcu03QmAtHUQwuHYFEShBt4j87a0RQLY/s1600/SE_GBHobson_Final.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFaaKYjx1RFFUdf51njiuJCBz5zffv5zYH_umaHTotAuIBwaR38LBmJ1qoLIp390vXGOkiRR4btrt3A4KTnlpXsmNgz4fbvyMT241ABJn7faKcu03QmAtHUQwuHYFEShBt4j87a0RQLY/s320/SE_GBHobson_Final.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631095712315679138" /></a><br /><br />At the age of fifty I took early retirement from teaching (my teaching career followed after freelance designing) and trained for non-stipendiary Church Lay ministry. Overcoming my natural shyness (not easy I can tell you), I became the first woman in this area to preach in a number of churches, conduct funerals and church services, visit nursing homes as chaplain, as well as visit the housebound, the sick and bereaved, and generally assist the clergy. Yes, some hostility but not from the general public. Having become addicted to study, I gained the rare A DipR. Then decided to do an Open University BA (hons) degree (mainly religion in Victorian times).<br />Then aged 69 and unable to drive because of failing sight, I gave up ministry and turned to writing fiction. You might think writing to be just the right occupation for someone like me, but…<br /><br />One of my novels was Blazing Embers (now rewritten as <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/s?_encoding=UTF8&search-alias=digital-text&field-author=G.B%20Hobson">SMOULDERING EMBERS by G B Hobson</a>, and <a href="http://www.empirebookstore.com/">published by Dare Empire</a>). Since I had been inspired by something witnessed on the UK TV Kilroy Programme, I wrote to Robert Kilroy Silk to see if he would comment on my manuscript. I received not only a yes, but also an invite to appear on his TV show. WOW! (Er… did I really want to make a fool of myself?)<br /><br />When I reached the London studio I was told the title for the show that day: ‘I’m still sexy though I’m older’! (Definitely NOT ME. So what on earth was I — a retiring CofE Reader — doing there?) A few women were already being given prompts to cause animated and aggressive discussions concerning their sexuality.<br /><br />Robert, while moving along the rows, drew out conflicting opinions about dating, dress and the sexy behaviour of some seniors. Sometimes the discussion became quite heated. Would you believe, one young woman said it wasn’t fair that older women were taking it from them. (Presumably when competing for men — not enough of ‘IT’ to go round? What a laugh!) Then came my turn to be involved.<br /><br />(The following is only as I remember it. I cannot bear to look at the video of the occasion.)<br />I felt Kilroy’s hand on my shoulder. He addressed those gathered there.<br />Robert: ‘Gladys sent me a manuscript to read. It was about a granny who wanted more sex.’ (Howls of laughter.)<br />Me: ‘Well, actually, Alice wanted an orgasm…something so far denied her…’ (Oooooo and more laughter)<br />Robert: ‘And that isn’t sex?’ (Howls of laughter.)<br />Me: ‘Of course, but watching late night TV made her aware…’ <br />Robert: ‘Didn’t I suggest you cool down the sex?’ (Oooooo! And more laughter.)<br />Me: ‘Yes. But this is serious, Robert. People my age did not get sex education. Many people were totally ignorant about love-making, even on their marriage night.’<br />Robert: ‘I expect they found out by morning.’ (Howls of laughter.)<br />Me: ‘This is serious, Robert… ’ I was getting cross. ‘In those days…’<br /><br />And so it went on with Robert Kilroy Silk causing belly laughs. That is, until a woman in front of me joined in. I was still trying to get over the difference between fulfillment and ‘just sex’ and how a woman could go through life unfulfilled, but she diverted the chat to other matters. Okay, so the book is truly funny as well as poignant. I guess I kind of asked for the teasing. <br /><br />Eventually Robert asked the guy next to me if older people can still be sexy. He assured everyone this was so, in fact better because older couples were more experienced and likely to take more time with preliminaries.<br /><br />At the end of the show I was surrounded by most of the women present, wanting to know where they could buy my book! So too when I got back home. Alas, all I had was a manuscript and although literary agents were interested, they didn’t think they had the contacts for that particular genre to take it on. (The main publishing houses want stories that fit neatly into pigeonholes and likely to sell in the hundreds of thousands — I guess my story is a bit kinky!) But my son set up my own <a href="http://www.magpiesnestpublishing.co.uk">publishing house</a> and now all my books are in print. Better still, <a href="http://www.empirebookstore.com/">DARE EMPIRE</a> has contracted all my novels (where I am known as G B Hobson), and Justin James has given them all attractive covers, especially Smouldering Embers and The Dark Mirror. They are all available in PRINT and as eBooks.<br /><br />I still have to push myself as far as publicity is concerned. Sometimes I just want to curl up inside my shell and have a quiet life. It is good though when readers tell me how much they enjoy reading my books. One said she had passed round this particular book so many times that it has become tatty. (Encouraging even if not good for sales!) <br /><br />You can also get unusual handcrafted copies of my novels from <blockquote><a href="http://agpressma.books.officelive.com/default.aspx">AGPress</a></blockquote> — who knows, maybe one day they will be collectors items!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE3ag54aE00L1DVQgDXqobxqM0QH-uxHdkPgQV-FJoKVY0HuQF-DGSDSoPDI7o0UooJGyoHb0DTgAB0zVOGskJpAsY_LunIMx0C9wo_39oRmPv9YCtZZeKlGDey7JuuhlOEzoL9_St3d4/s1600/SDC10411.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 146px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE3ag54aE00L1DVQgDXqobxqM0QH-uxHdkPgQV-FJoKVY0HuQF-DGSDSoPDI7o0UooJGyoHb0DTgAB0zVOGskJpAsY_LunIMx0C9wo_39oRmPv9YCtZZeKlGDey7JuuhlOEzoL9_St3d4/s200/SDC10411.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631093556979760866" /></a>Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-23347793233014671342011-07-17T07:55:00.000-07:002011-07-17T08:15:00.416-07:00Heaviness but the sun comes through<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDAzCUWKyYAxcctilW0yoc1ApO6ZEu4ONf19HBm2FVYXFm6vPQg3aU9OCdLbNNFZkDCdQXb4-_TjTMcwCS3UajerwrM1Qq_OcF-mVlvGbmwD8tIN85Qlgl7oPB3YFNB5QSJ7IGstobYg/s1600/SDC14392.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDAzCUWKyYAxcctilW0yoc1ApO6ZEu4ONf19HBm2FVYXFm6vPQg3aU9OCdLbNNFZkDCdQXb4-_TjTMcwCS3UajerwrM1Qq_OcF-mVlvGbmwD8tIN85Qlgl7oPB3YFNB5QSJ7IGstobYg/s320/SDC14392.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630336559754150162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59I_ThVnc5ixOkRMCIulUGd1iSrlaSbtL3o6mxrPIp4PBs2q8kCBEJ3WaVliIdKRlsJ_oBXaHmUCdMjQulQwSWgJY5n1-KFDpiXiq9rTXkxs2bA-kG61QvJmeAgYcgK9w0YKket7sqjE/s1600/SDC14388.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59I_ThVnc5ixOkRMCIulUGd1iSrlaSbtL3o6mxrPIp4PBs2q8kCBEJ3WaVliIdKRlsJ_oBXaHmUCdMjQulQwSWgJY5n1-KFDpiXiq9rTXkxs2bA-kG61QvJmeAgYcgK9w0YKket7sqjE/s320/SDC14388.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630336233386515778" /></a><br /> I often draw from nature to solve my problems or discomfort. Heavy clouds with sun breaking through has always been an uplifting sight for me. I don't care much for bright sunshine as it is bad for my sight. In just about everything to do with life, I find Contrasts easier to cope with. You can have too much of a good thing? Well that is the way we were brought up to think. (And 'too much' for us in those days would seem to be what most folk take for granted these days!)<br /><br />I can't walk like I used to but I enjoy getting out to view nature close to, but also look at vistas that go on for miles. <br /><br />You don’t have to go far out of Ulverston to find staggering views towards Coniston. Of course, you can get excellent views of distant fells and mountains from the local Hoad, and other places too, but this one here, where Coniston Water lies below a sweep of mountains underneath smouldering skies, is always close to my heart. For those keen on walking (fairly steep hill to climb) follow the Cumbrian Way until reaching the road that goes upwards towards the moors (or go straight up Old Hall Road, turning left at the crossroads, passing Windy Ash Barn and upwards towards the Anglers Tarn. Continue walking upwards until distant Coniston comes into view. Actually we often drive this way home into Ulverston and stop the car to take in the view. But we have walked in that direction a number of times. At a rough guess I would say it is about two miles from the town centre. Maybe less — walking uphill always makes the journey seem much longer!Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-11267867646200859052011-07-12T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-12T06:18:29.470-07:00We Met on the Bus...part two. (The ups and downs of a design career)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkpPkvyr59vPt70SYY4TspPAHhv-8H4_erI0j4B6Gbt3_odyRbM6j2OmONSTI4Up6Aba4WMnpz7lKucfmNu9EAFjFymS7154JlNINUKGzaSuaPm3QxVyOAGXhzHA71oBzk8pU7uXSlww/s1600/SDC13543.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkpPkvyr59vPt70SYY4TspPAHhv-8H4_erI0j4B6Gbt3_odyRbM6j2OmONSTI4Up6Aba4WMnpz7lKucfmNu9EAFjFymS7154JlNINUKGzaSuaPm3QxVyOAGXhzHA71oBzk8pU7uXSlww/s200/SDC13543.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628452092064113506" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgDZdaZdbm42xqJjOIbhTMa1d-ntw8z5BEz7Bu7Jupsqd2isY7ZDNxI-ljWyI7Co-ensurE33iIlXjCvJKk7mONY7PzgH4EuADWsFI3oS-Jeo7OqBA7RH_sX24pWS8n9GhFOnfgl_CYo/s1600/SDC14223.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgDZdaZdbm42xqJjOIbhTMa1d-ntw8z5BEz7Bu7Jupsqd2isY7ZDNxI-ljWyI7Co-ensurE33iIlXjCvJKk7mONY7PzgH4EuADWsFI3oS-Jeo7OqBA7RH_sX24pWS8n9GhFOnfgl_CYo/s200/SDC14223.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628451660275660226" /></a><br /><br />We Met On the Bus… Part Two<br />My new job is a turn for the worse!<br /><br />While things were going smoothly, well smoothly in relative terms, with my new boyfriend (I’ll give him the name of John) whom I met on the bus, it was a different story with my new job. I recall a college lecturer saying, “They’ll exploit you, if they can,” and how true this turned out to be. <br />I had been taken on as an assistant designer but in actual fact they were short of cutters. That is where I was needed and that is where I stayed — cutting samples, plus garments for production. Eventually I was given a chance to do a couple of designs but I knew it was just a sop to keep me there. Their main production was in sloppy sweaters made in a type of brushed nylon popular at that time, and that is not enough work even for one designer. But the designer turned out her seasonal samples and I had the job of cutting a number of each them. Some were totally impractical for mass production — lines and checks having to match at every meeting point. The costing was way out and if I had been on piece rates I would have been looking sick by the end of the week! So said the manager who was not pleased with my output. I started looking for other jobs.<br />Just seeing John once a week to visit a local cinema did not exactly fill my evenings. My best friend, whom I had known since we were at junior school together, agreed for us to go to the Nottingham Palais for square dancing once a week. We had always been fond of music and dancing, visiting the Nottingham theatre when we could afford a seat in the gods. We also enjoyed plays at the Nottingham Playhouse. In our younger days we put on concerts in the attic of her big house. Keen on designing, I made the costumes when necessary. We both found square dancing fun. <br />It wasn’t long before a boy named David had me as his constant dancing partner, which was just as well because I really needed someone to prompt me during the sequences. After some weeks he asked me if I would help him out. He was a church youth-group leader and wanted to introduce dance into their programme. For this, he needed a partner for a course on leading country dancing. Most of my evenings being free, I accepted although it meant meeting him in town straight from work.<br />I met David the following Monday. He insisted on paying for my coffee and bun at a café before going on to a hall a bus ride away. Fair enough, after all I was there for his benefit and I would not get home until quite late<br />Unknown to me, it reached David’s ears, through a lad in his youth group, that I was seeing a boyfriend every Friday. My dancer was not happy and arranged a meeting with John that lunchtime to see what was going on. Not pleased, that evening David told me all about the meeting. I said that John had no serious intentions, we only went to the cinema together once a week. Since I was only David’s dance partner what was the problem?<br />Evidently David saw things differently. There may have been no cuddling, no kissing, no sweet talk but this guy had intentions of marriage! But I had never seen him in that light. What’s more John had told David that he intended to marry me! I can’t say that I was pleased that I had been the object of such a discussion. I had already been told by someone who knew John that he was not the marrying kind, and had already upset a hopeful lass back home. <br />From then on, David stopped paying for my tea. I guess it was a sign of a break-up of something that never was. The night he told me, John was waiting for me at the bus stop where I caught the bus home. He was not pleased. It came out that he was truly serious about our relationship. Before long he stopped going home every weekend so we could have more time together. After all, his evenings were taken up with night classes and study. So we sorted drifted into marriage — one year to the day that we first went out together.<br />I found a designing job but they only took me on for a two weeks trial. I first got their block patterns corrected and then turned out ten designs in the first week. I was told at the end of the week that they really wanted an overlooker, rather than a designer but they would give me an excellent reference for my abilities. I chose not to stay for the second week. The girl who sewed the samples told me they all knew I would not get the job. ‘Miss Smith will not allow someone much better than her to take over her job.’<br />Out of work. I took on a job as a cutter for a few months. Then a letter arrived quite unexpectedly. Four or five months earlier I had applied for a job as a designer but had not received a reply. Now I was being offered an interview. I got the job, worked hard and before long had a rise to a magnificent sum of £8 a week. This was in the days of poor pay for women and I was getting not much less than my husband received in his new job in Research and Development. Of course by this time I had given up dancing. My hubby has no sense of rhythm, apart from being born with two left feet! Ah, such is love!<br /><br />The photographs: The electric iron I bought just before our marriage in 1953 and, with some new parts, still doing excellent service. Plus a photograph of a table cloth I bought and embroidered before and after our marriage. The cloth was bought with a £1 note, a reward for handing in a gold watch I had found by the factory I was working in at the time of the above events. In the party photograph I am with a workmate and her boyfriend. It was when I was working there that I met John on the bus. At the next party I was wearing my own designed dress and my hubby was my partner. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmec4fKbmw7me4zQ1gbHArggDOZok4KFhMBGFkLBIuKQJxwo0kpHxBP4MMcjSdpW2HPVYCRFNnwZl1XM-Naf3-mOPQAZvvcmMYOh0PX3ZVqh0D2LLnGE7V3kLPHWi5rHB4jDSCBhlGkYo/s1600/Works+Party+aged+19"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmec4fKbmw7me4zQ1gbHArggDOZok4KFhMBGFkLBIuKQJxwo0kpHxBP4MMcjSdpW2HPVYCRFNnwZl1XM-Naf3-mOPQAZvvcmMYOh0PX3ZVqh0D2LLnGE7V3kLPHWi5rHB4jDSCBhlGkYo/s200/Works+Party+aged+19" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628452451030174978" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht16GnzLRGYuNR_jGfR8uJPeFxZjaQaOPwWnlcVs3Hj_w8_1JjCnYX0d0NyaPux8Sxhnu2Lyw1E61aWZECx4ADVV1WrQ1uETYHLmciYpDWEVGlhOKWngusizloeK3zVCIuA8aPobvZi1I/s1600/SDC13058.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht16GnzLRGYuNR_jGfR8uJPeFxZjaQaOPwWnlcVs3Hj_w8_1JjCnYX0d0NyaPux8Sxhnu2Lyw1E61aWZECx4ADVV1WrQ1uETYHLmciYpDWEVGlhOKWngusizloeK3zVCIuA8aPobvZi1I/s200/SDC13058.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628452996170771122" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />More to come…Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-88832377342733831692011-07-07T14:12:00.000-07:002011-07-07T14:16:09.679-07:00We Met on the Bus at a time of my working at a career in dress design...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5wPGH_MP4CxvKR4y-TzEPd-khKGqC4NfLkOFbznbLLQ87ikoUyKZc8n6HAae3UXBfVDO2EVdq-GQxrjlqG9XWZUrMp3CUzyb7ueFDOK5VU2gto5hlk4UFxyK6jPquqzXyT0K_4AqDaCr/s1600/SDC10930.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5wPGH_MP4CxvKR4y-TzEPd-khKGqC4NfLkOFbznbLLQ87ikoUyKZc8n6HAae3UXBfVDO2EVdq-GQxrjlqG9XWZUrMp3CUzyb7ueFDOK5VU2gto5hlk4UFxyK6jPquqzXyT0K_4AqDaCr/s320/SDC10930.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623684902170794802" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QRzZNSyH9EH9oc3viyQnLS-PiWHQPhPEGlr42kysffUzT8zBDDom8qDkXYpeSxqedFb0momCPXrhPLXOwTIuBv0-RQX6nYcnDCzOlMlGajO9dmovX86-TxcG0PauT6wT4ULcjqJqWT1t/s1600/SDC10925.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 163px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QRzZNSyH9EH9oc3viyQnLS-PiWHQPhPEGlr42kysffUzT8zBDDom8qDkXYpeSxqedFb0momCPXrhPLXOwTIuBv0-RQX6nYcnDCzOlMlGajO9dmovX86-TxcG0PauT6wT4ULcjqJqWT1t/s320/SDC10925.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623684556650147122" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNbXoZF9OZq0Gclg9V5UsoMAXsQS7I8K_2rhV_UN4XazWIFLjHJM4NBQGneUMIA4Xf_8fthvxPBrMxpUJR5WM2UKzPkCghiED-fDo5issRbPF8nnLdRpT8loZnyBxTCbRpgUGlFD3dFi4/s1600/SDC13266.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 178px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNbXoZF9OZq0Gclg9V5UsoMAXsQS7I8K_2rhV_UN4XazWIFLjHJM4NBQGneUMIA4Xf_8fthvxPBrMxpUJR5WM2UKzPkCghiED-fDo5issRbPF8nnLdRpT8loZnyBxTCbRpgUGlFD3dFi4/s320/SDC13266.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623684305147074354" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwsIDyDKDa6YqaSvBUn6n8suSuil66tmglBTBo3jbGxBGQc1Jc1TlEWlTyHrLrWJZLpK_To5wrufc0GJJNvTT-X20McCX6S3B4zsH2UMwcaj2xwMzYnb5sS1-VmNYduOM4olLFYfXP1xIO/s1600/SDC14075.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwsIDyDKDa6YqaSvBUn6n8suSuil66tmglBTBo3jbGxBGQc1Jc1TlEWlTyHrLrWJZLpK_To5wrufc0GJJNvTT-X20McCX6S3B4zsH2UMwcaj2xwMzYnb5sS1-VmNYduOM4olLFYfXP1xIO/s320/SDC14075.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623683820481327282" /></a><br />We Met on the Bus<br />at a time of my working at a career in dress design...<br /><br />(Late 1940's Designs done when I was in my teens)<br /><br />It was late February of 1952 and I was starting a new job in the city of Nottingham. Along with my sister Phyl, I was waiting in the queue at the 5A bus stop, just around the corner from my home. I was dressed in grey — coat, stockings and shoes. A grey outfit for a grey day! But there was nothing gloomy in my mood: I had a new beginning, a chance to prove my ability to design clothes that would sell in shops all over Britain. At least, that is what I thought at the time.<br /><br />The bus arrived and we slowly boarded. There were no seats left for me to be able to sit with my sister, so I sat on the long seat by the stepping on-and-off platform. My thoughts wandered to my previous jobs: trainee designer at a knitted-clothing firm catering for the wholesale trade, followed by two years as a designer pattern cutter at a manufacturer of dresses for the retail trade. I had done well with my first employers, William Gibson and Sons. I joined them when I was just sixteen and had worked my way up from the cutting bench to designing outfits for the younger end of the fashion trade. I smiled to myself as I recalled my first day of working in that huge factory.<br /><br />The factory was a red brick, early nineteenth-century building. One of the many mill buildings in that city which was once a centre for Britain’s finest industry — clothing, lace, bicycles, pharmaceuticals, and many small engineering enterprises. Nottingham also has a fine university building, standing on a hill within the magnificent Highfields Park. I looked up to view the majestic white building silhouetted against a grey sky. <br /><br />I suddenly realised I was being watched. Two soft brown eyes under thick eyelashes and heavy dark brows were smiling at me. I coyly dropped my eyes, knowing my cheeks were turning pink.<br /><br />Oh, why did I have to blush when a man looked at me? It had been the same in my first year at Gibson’s. Every time I went down to the canteen with the other workers, the men sitting near the yard door, would whistle, knowing what would happen. It took the motherly overlooker to get it stopped. But it was the same at the cutting bench. The male supervisor would stand the other side of the table looking at me until I lifted up my head. Then everyone would laugh as my cheeks revealed my embarrassment. At least, a later supervisor did not get away with his sexist chauvinism. He had a habit of running his thumb knuckle down my spine as he passed behind me. I asked him nicely not to do it several times. The laughter was wiped off his face when I swung the tip of my boot at his shin. He called me a foul name but he didn’t touch me again.<br /> <br />I lifted my eyes a little. My dark-haired fellow traveller was still watching me, but now the corners of his lips were curling into a curious little smile. I dropped my eyes again. This time I had a picture of him in my mind: mid-twenties, medium build, short wavy hair, rather a swarthy face out of which shone those penetrating, but warm, eyes. Somehow he had connected with my inner being and that was disturbing. I turned my mind to other matters.<br /><br />I had done well at Gibson’s. It had been tough to start with. My soft hands were not used to handling the heavy tailoring shears used to cut patterns and cloth, and my skin had to be hardened before I was comfortable using them. I had to get used to a lot of things: machinery noise within that huge room, and coming from the floors above and below; long hours of toil and the uncertainty of knowing my place — officially one of the staff, but unofficially one of the girls. Socially, I was totally out of my depth.<br /><br />I soon found out that certain class distinctions operated in that place. Management, designers and office staff, tucked away in the offices were monthly paid. Cutters (close to the stock room and offices) and sample hands were hourly paid. Lockstitchers, embroidery machine operators, overlockers, finishers (at the opposite end of the factory floor) were on piece rates. The steam press workers and ironers, who were separated by a glass partition, would have been hourly paid. All piece rate workers received bonuses on top of the rate for the job. The bonuses brought them up to a living wage comparable with the other workers, with the speedier and more experienced girls doing very well. It was hot and sweaty working on those machines but the girls seemed cheerful enough, singing as they did to songs coming over the Tannoy system. <br /><br />Until I actually began designing I found it difficult to fit in with any group, but then it became even more of a problem for me once the season rush was over. I would be back with the cutters. It especially became problematic when the chief designer thought, once the design rush was over, it would be a good idea for me to join the machinists and get really skilled. This way I could fill in where needed. This seemed unfair to me: the designers had time to relax and prepare for the following season, since my designs were selling well, why shouldn’t I have the same privilege?<br /><br />I found myself another job. It seemed I had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire! I wasn’t really needed as a designer, even the designer-manageress copied just about every design produced each season. The boss would pick dresses up in London or elsewhere and have exact copies made. Even he himself was known to rip open a dress and use the pieces as a pattern for a new model. I hasten to add here that either the manageress or myself would have the job of translating it to our own pattern blocks, which were incredibly accurate. There was a strict system of grading different sizes too. Strict was indeed a word to describe many things there. Someone was told off for talking to me, I was practically timed if I went off to the toilet, and told off for leaving the light on while I did so. A new machinist was dismissed after the first week because she wasn’t earning enough — the boss said he could fill her place with a quicker worker. I was told that someone had applied for a job as a cutter and that the boss considered, since he could cut patterns too, he might be better off with him than me. I decided to get another job before I was put under even more pressure. When I gave in my notice, within less than half an hour I was handed my ‘cards’ and told to leave the building within two minutes. The manageress stood over me to make sure I did not take anything not mine, and that I did not speak to anyone. I resented being treated like a criminal! <br /><br />So here I was on my way to a new job, which required two bus journeys. This earlier travelling time had brought me into contact with this young man. His eyes were fixed on me and nobody else. After a few days he started sitting next to me whenever he could. It wasn’t long before other passengers left us a seat so we could always sit together. After a few weeks he asked me to go to the cinema with him the following Friday, the one night he did not attend evening classes. It was Spring Day. Exactly one year later we were married in our local church. <br /><br />A regards my designing career, there began a whole new turn of events …<br /><br />(More to come)Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-5070264659218055642011-06-22T01:39:00.000-07:002011-06-22T02:45:07.426-07:00A Granny in Search of an Orgasm? otherwise known as Smouldering Embers!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNF17JcPLB3Na2tyfdBUmOdZWf8T95mm4UGg_KNZA3t9G6CUirQHgDfmMnXZjDxQfuPD-0LccKhXOGJsFd-NcPLVps-oLO0NEHy02FEw2zny64Ijjk-Pk3Bug6bxPpZ2wK557tayXNFg/s1600/SE_GBHobson_Final.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNF17JcPLB3Na2tyfdBUmOdZWf8T95mm4UGg_KNZA3t9G6CUirQHgDfmMnXZjDxQfuPD-0LccKhXOGJsFd-NcPLVps-oLO0NEHy02FEw2zny64Ijjk-Pk3Bug6bxPpZ2wK557tayXNFg/s320/SE_GBHobson_Final.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620969318357889714" /></a><br />My latest novel is a complete rewrite of Blazing Embers written seven years ago. I have taken note of the advice given by a top publisher and also by a top literary agent's reader. They suggested I reduce the ages of the top characters so as to appeal to a wider range of readers. In actual fact I have found the novel already has an appeal to a wide range of book lovers, especially of the Baby Boomer age but maybe this change will indeed increase the book's popularity. Justin James of Dare Empire has done a splendid job of the cover design and I look forward to holding the paperback version in my hand. (At the time of writing, it can be bought as a very cheap eBook at the <a href="http://www.empirebookstore.com">Empire Bookstore</a> and in different formats. Great news for booklovers, my other four novels are being offered at silly prices for a week or so to celebrate my new book! <br />So if you fancy reading about a young-at-heart granny in search of that orgasm so far denied her, now is the time to be enlightened about her circumstances and eventual progress. <br />It has been known for the reader to be educated too (one said that the book had changed his life!)<br />Andy O'Hara said: Wow. I don't say that often. Ms. Hobson's writing is quite good indeed. There's such a wistful, genuine quality to her style that it's hard not to be drawn in right away. Unpretentious — so nice to see that in writing once in a great while. Very unique, and very charming.<br />Bob Taylor said: I've read all four of Hobson's books, and I find that she has a delicate touch when writing about human sexuality. I don't normally read 'love stories', but those that Hobson writes are really interesting from a man's point of view — especially when she explores the male psyche. It's just a little bit... scary... that a female should have that kind of knowledge. She's a very gifted and articulate lady.<br />From the book:<br />"You see Alice, everyone's at it these days. Young folk do it openly but if we oldies did that in public they'd take us off and put us in care!"<br /><br />Late night TV helps Alice realise what has been missing from her love life. Her hubby has benefited from forty years of satisfaction, time for her to experience an orgasmic encounter?<br /><br />On TV chat shows, Silver-haired sex appears to cause great hilarity. WHY?<br />Mature lovemaking has much to offer: a lifetime of practice, plenty of time for preliminaries and, most of all, the freedom to have a good laugh when things go haywaire!Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-15442644840367348062011-06-20T12:15:00.000-07:002011-06-20T12:27:34.997-07:00Of Chalk and Cheese, Childhood and Sex!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMdsljqiQiDPbc3agq9mLC2sZrHt_0CqwGH6U5umcLt-Qe_lQ-AdHFRCHCe2Ewrjz30FCKQ8pwtnYSz-KjFfQ8fRIDK-cDbt_KKUbjRfzUBKPef5v06pHJL4I_TBndavZOY7pDWYHUcQ/s1600/SDC14094.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMdsljqiQiDPbc3agq9mLC2sZrHt_0CqwGH6U5umcLt-Qe_lQ-AdHFRCHCe2Ewrjz30FCKQ8pwtnYSz-KjFfQ8fRIDK-cDbt_KKUbjRfzUBKPef5v06pHJL4I_TBndavZOY7pDWYHUcQ/s320/SDC14094.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620385324429917090" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Being a mother, grandmother and great step-great grandmother, plus having spent some years as a teacher (including Reception) it is hardly surprising to have a deep interest in communication and the welfare of children.<br />We can learn a lot from little ones. The small child who volunteers his favourite soft toy to a hurting friend, the toddler who tries to give his comforter to the baby crying on the TV. Of course children, as they grow older, can also be jolly spiteful too and bite the hand of a playmate, or hit a pal with a toy. Were these children different when they were younger or did they lose their innocence? Exactly how much are children influenced by their environment? <br />My sister and I (two siblings left out of a family of six children) are totally different and always have been. We don’t look alike, we don’t speak alike, we rarely like the same things but we love each other dearly. Yes, as children we used to fight and argue. But being a little older than me she would look after me out there in the big bad world.<br />One Sunday, dressed in our best clothes, we were going for a walk. My sister stopped to see a friend while I watched older boys digging in a hole. Being nosy I wanted to see what they were getting out of the dirt. I soon found out. They called me over saying they wanted to show me something. Daft as ever, I did as asked. The boys stuffed worms up my sleeves, into my pockets and down my neck. I stood screaming like Violet Elizabeth from Crompton’s Just William. Come to think of it, those boys were rather like William! My sister came running to my rescue and her verbal attack put them to flight. <br />My sister often helped my dad with his repair work on engines and such, while I would be given sewing tasks, to do, trim my dad’s hair and be my mum’s hairdresser. From leaving school at fourteen, my sister picked up the swearing of her workmates. Not so me. I guess I took after my mum, apart from which I had witnessed the fury of my dad when he heard women (girls) swear! (He was pretty good at swearing himself but men were expected to swear.)<br />In a Reception Class you can see characters forming and that is a wonderful thing. So too, seeing their minds grow as they respond to teaching through word and their environment, exploration and discovery. What a shame much of what they learn as they grow older is far from life enhancing. <br />WE are born with certain drives to keep us healthy and ensure the continuance of the species. Are these drives traded on? Food is an obvious case. But has the whole of society, never mind children’s clothing, been sexed up and innocence lost? We see things on television that boggle the mind — not forgetting the other parts meant to be titillated. What is right and what is wrong? How can children judge these things when so much is thrown at them? How is that sex with children under sixteen is a criminal offense and yet we have so many young teenage pregnancies? Is it okay then for children to have sex with each other at a very early age but if one reaches seventeen then he or she is a criminal? The Pill was to solve the problem of unwanted pregnancies but it seems to have started a revolution of sexual freedom with young people pressed into sexual experience as many are into drink and drugs. Surely, ‘responsibility’ has been devalued, as has the joy of sex that goes hand in hand with lifetime loving partnerships. At least THIS is something we sisters are in agreement. Can’t think of anything else we totally agree about though! <br /><br />Photograph — photo of us discussing the state of the country during our visit to Attenborough Nature Reserve (My sister lives many miles away and meetings are few.)Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-63643800154202611782011-05-29T02:21:00.000-07:002011-05-29T02:59:59.473-07:00Of Gender and Choice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgGGwsxnvxH8kzLkLf6coBz8FNTNPepPF163h91JWgiJKoEqTSF8ACEkhWoQ7LtH-sbEC6Z8xmPDbneAEHAJPUlu7TVeHg7oC8bMQuPW9Uh44E6-hKt0YbPEBgSfRHh7iOyYZ6qdZKnDo/s1600/SDC13720.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgGGwsxnvxH8kzLkLf6coBz8FNTNPepPF163h91JWgiJKoEqTSF8ACEkhWoQ7LtH-sbEC6Z8xmPDbneAEHAJPUlu7TVeHg7oC8bMQuPW9Uh44E6-hKt0YbPEBgSfRHh7iOyYZ6qdZKnDo/s320/SDC13720.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612075040131162866" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRM7G0WwHKhhoSBSjSEK5MoSE6pu1jBpCe4LIQZ_d84mV1eNI2cvKiQAYUgRFS2X9NB_LpNBskIvRSGUzBwFgg21IuRsRrRAWIQnE6HtdKGuLg-xKPbxO9QFZ5xHXdFqTUi4WY7I7kAo/s1600/SDC13723.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 265px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRM7G0WwHKhhoSBSjSEK5MoSE6pu1jBpCe4LIQZ_d84mV1eNI2cvKiQAYUgRFS2X9NB_LpNBskIvRSGUzBwFgg21IuRsRrRAWIQnE6HtdKGuLg-xKPbxO9QFZ5xHXdFqTUi4WY7I7kAo/s320/SDC13723.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612074825085892658" /></a><br />Every so often there is a debate about hereditary and nurture, and the parent's influence on a child's own sexual identity. It is said that girl babies are dressed in pink and boys are put in blue garments. Girls have dolls and boys get more mechanical objects to play with. I made most of my children's clothes and my mum-in-law knitted their jumpers and various outfits. In those days we did not know what the child's sex would be until the baby was born. I had a pile of clothes waiting for my babies, all of them blue, yellow or white. The hood of the pram was lined in a pretty blue simply because I thought it went nicely with the grey carriage. I am not keen on pink but I would loved to have had a girl child. I have three wonderful handsome sons. I made them dresses as it was best for nappy changing. I am amazed that tiny little ones are put in jeans as if they were mini dads (or mums for that matter). I enjoyed smocking and sewing their little garments. Stretch material was not available in those days and I wanted them to be comfortable. Once they were running around I made them little easy-iron shirts and shorts. <br />As far as toys are concerned, soft toys followed by constructive toys which they loved. Cars are loved by little children because they can manipulate them and make them move — brum-brum! Houses can be built and knocked down, cranes can be built and manipulated, blocks built up and knocked down, Leggo taken apart and constructed. Drawing, painting etc etc - boys and girls have the same. Teddy can have his arm bandaged whether the owner is boy or girl. If a son follows his dad that is natural. My sons can use a sewing machine but they don't normally sew — by choice. When my sewing machine stopped working my four-year old fetched me the correct fuse and changed it in the plug. He had watched his dad — his choice. <br />If parents turn their daughters into pretty-pretty girls in pink only, and, or, turn them into mini-sexy girls at too early an age it is rather silly and confusing. Children should be allowed to be children and play and get messy. To do the opposite and try to keep a neutral sexual identity is rather silly too. Let boys be boys and girls do their own thing too. My lads may have worn convenient little dresses when babies but they all grew up to be strapping lads AND engineers just like their dad!Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-52566628898650735432011-05-13T23:33:00.000-07:002011-05-14T01:03:23.920-07:00Go Elsewhere For Poetry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjMzOZsvMpYpghVaQWWa_02UgbsNn0XpERYvSsutyqmhTUjRplTOVorxpktgQNPTyILWVgKuaUf9H6eFvz-9v4AxTxhefL0utbBNr1fiFRHZuGxbHd_SXkV0dP4ALiPELv9vozjBwuaA/s1600/100_0289.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjMzOZsvMpYpghVaQWWa_02UgbsNn0XpERYvSsutyqmhTUjRplTOVorxpktgQNPTyILWVgKuaUf9H6eFvz-9v4AxTxhefL0utbBNr1fiFRHZuGxbHd_SXkV0dP4ALiPELv9vozjBwuaA/s320/100_0289.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606479321220650530" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOr0wAt5MgrylK8tzprS2iQilSy0fiBQYkIu9kbLHLbmARB_tbRNgy1BGDO9WUKlkZmnrvLCCSGdVCUXTkRRgMe2l0r3OAJoC33RQ3gfcmxeShIluvXFXta0U8Y3z5lJqDcypUnVdAXU/s1600/100_0293.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOr0wAt5MgrylK8tzprS2iQilSy0fiBQYkIu9kbLHLbmARB_tbRNgy1BGDO9WUKlkZmnrvLCCSGdVCUXTkRRgMe2l0r3OAJoC33RQ3gfcmxeShIluvXFXta0U8Y3z5lJqDcypUnVdAXU/s320/100_0293.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606478986758898002" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4viiDuN69k0YU0a2e1ZNgGpTKtyVact2G33oasHhNrfSEYNJ7hGbKnVQ7K0S9Hfa7tJbnd0ItPUjlDm8ZgbpIMAtlbyYZ4_NTlq3NVMmeioy_vjOG_9qleYPYGn7-BKoFooF6c2cEB8/s1600/100_0294.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg4viiDuN69k0YU0a2e1ZNgGpTKtyVact2G33oasHhNrfSEYNJ7hGbKnVQ7K0S9Hfa7tJbnd0ItPUjlDm8ZgbpIMAtlbyYZ4_NTlq3NVMmeioy_vjOG_9qleYPYGn7-BKoFooF6c2cEB8/s320/100_0294.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606478609616429282" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvJbZR1i3nDkBaltsUj6Yc9s9ZkRrhqt7wmbPNOSB2katr8EklWNYPmbk5XwoCsiAxumM83oabpAJv_dSQ3UeWqPIkSTeVpUOLozBMrlTiUejifZiCJ5LySxDbXjB_FVKikQ9jTP6vwhc/s1600/100_0297.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvJbZR1i3nDkBaltsUj6Yc9s9ZkRrhqt7wmbPNOSB2katr8EklWNYPmbk5XwoCsiAxumM83oabpAJv_dSQ3UeWqPIkSTeVpUOLozBMrlTiUejifZiCJ5LySxDbXjB_FVKikQ9jTP6vwhc/s400/100_0297.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606478156136788642" /></a><br />Go elsewhere for poetry. I cannot perform to rules and styles. Usually my poems rhyme. When I was at school that is how we were taught, and that is how we were able to learn the work of the poets. Of course, I read pieces of prose that touch my heart and mind and I will think 'yes this is beautiful, truly poetic.' <br />Last Thursday, we drove up to the Lakes, coming home via Coniston Water. It had been raining most of the day but the showers cleared and the sun came intermittently through the clouds, turning sky and lake to a luminescent blue. So here is my attempt to avoid rhyme!<br />Poets sigh their blossoming thoughts<br />With words flowing from the heart<br />Yet straining to achieve the impossible<br />To outdo Wordsworth’s golden daffodils.<br />Blue heaven with white wispy hair<br />Sheds light in diamond clarity<br />On ripples whipped by a breeze<br />While whispering through green leaves<br />I hear Creation’s own poetry — <br />Nature’s ode to Coniston WaterGladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6348852990067164417.post-87190140254960207802011-04-11T21:17:00.000-07:002011-04-11T21:26:12.353-07:00The Dark Mirror now in paperback!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhs8RiZztUsjD688veQEiK903TJOIzlgApnfKUbh2fy7Ajm-cpS-IPxqWvEAJOa3oRZbuUGvi2h1Q83Xh4cY3VVuycFxyl9Sv7JmITKo43VLWtAMW5bd4g55p1SVR5_86fsYr9CrJlWpE/s1600/GTukTheDarkMirror+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhs8RiZztUsjD688veQEiK903TJOIzlgApnfKUbh2fy7Ajm-cpS-IPxqWvEAJOa3oRZbuUGvi2h1Q83Xh4cY3VVuycFxyl9Sv7JmITKo43VLWtAMW5bd4g55p1SVR5_86fsYr9CrJlWpE/s320/GTukTheDarkMirror+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594548402858533858" /></a><br />The Dark Mirror is now available in both Paperback and eBook formats. Go to T<a href="http://www.wix.com/darempiremedia/deepbooks/hometwo#!__the-dark-mirror">he Dare Empire bookstore</a> to view the book and order directly.Gladys Hobsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01947126912910545535noreply@blogger.com0