A Lovely Day For a Funeral

A Lovely Day For a Funeral — a funeral for a lovely lady!

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.
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.
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.

A Day Later…
A Celebration of the life of ‘ever young’ Margaret Faith Cottis (31st March — 25th January 2012).
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.
Entry — Bach, Air on the G String.
Words of Welcome and Introduction.
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.
Time of silent reflection.
Committal.
Music for exit — Gary Lombardo, Enjoy Yourself…

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!

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.

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.

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.

Faith was always smiling or laughing. She could always see the funny side of most things in life!

The light of her life will always shine in the hearts and minds of those who loved her.

Flowers that speak of warmer days — flowering NOW in January!

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!

A Winter's Day at Aldingham. (CUMBRIA)

While I visit the nursing home at Aldingham (I have written about that on my Wrinkly Writers 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!

Gillian Brock — Lost, found. and lost again…

Gillian, in centre, explaining something to her Aunt Phyllis

Gillian talking to her cousin Linda. Both photos taken
when Gillian was here in England four years ago.

Gillian Brock —

Lost to us when a child, found and now lost again… my dear niece, Gillian.

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^th. 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.

Gillian had been planning her 60^th birthday. Not old by today’s standards.

I have been informing Gillian’s relatives on my side of the family.
I googled ‘Gillian Brock Died August 17^th 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.

I wrote above here, ‘lost to us when a child’ and this needs explaining.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Goodbye Gillian. I did not know you for very long but we had a good, if short, relationship.

Old Dog, New Tricks?

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.

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.

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?

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...

A couple of hours later and still nothing! I give up!

DONE! No, not by me! Son came home and used his skills. Yes, poor quality video, no music and it goes too fast but...

For details of this novel and my other books — go to my author blog

The trials and glories of Class 3Z

The trials and glories of Class 3Z

Looking back thirty years

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

No answer.

I repeat the question.

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.

“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!”

I am deeply moved.

They prove to be as good as their word.

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.”

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.

I say, “You have given me the best present ever. I will always keep this gift. Thank you.”

Their beaming smiles tell me that maybe my teaching skills are not too bad. Surely something has been achieved with them?

Every so often I come across that list of names and, with a warm glow, wonder what has become of each boy.

We met on the Bus Part Five… Dress Design and Family Matters.

We met on the Bus Part Five… Dress Design and Family Matters.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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!)

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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!

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.)

The suit (from a 1960 advert) is a design I did for a Nottingham firm in 1960.