The story of Ballyferris. Chapter Six. Dad's Garage.

Dad's Garage

I'm retracing my steps today to post this little snippet about the workshop that dad used to produce the caravan 

to give the family a place to holiday and one with salty fresh air ...and freedom.

Dad's garage....was not for the car.

For on a rough wooden bench...with oil stains from sump oil spilled from the pot that was used to seal the wooden and tarred roof ....stretching across the garden end ... the important joinery was carried out.

 An ancient wooden and metal vice...with a long handle slotted through the turning screw and two balls of metal...one at either end  to hold the bar in place...was screwed to the bench.

Along the walls, held in place with strips of wood tacked on to the vertical structure, were off cuts of timber kept for use in future assemblages.

Under the work bench and to the right in the darkness was an ancient travel trunk with a domed lid and wooden slats that held down the oiled fabric on the top.

 In this trunk were kept scrolls extolling the different members of the Williamson family..mum was a Williamson... and their academic successes.

 And also in this treasure box under the scrolls were hidden beautiful 1st world war postcards with  messages of love embroidered on silken gauze and pictures woven to depict exotic places.

To the left and behind the side door, a dog's bed with straw and water dish, for dad was born a farmer's son and took a hound with him when he went hunting .He was always a country man at heart.

His woodworking tools were beautiful . Handmade by himself at the City technical college in his free time. Oak and mahogany handles turned and often enscribed with his name D.G.McC. There were wooden boxes on the top of the workbench holding nails, screws, hinges and other equipment in separate sections.

A window above the bench looked out to his garden of roses and perennials.And always a bed of sweet pea to scent the air at the end of summer.

Above his head, slotted along the roof joists were more lengths of wood. Whether they were ever used I cannot say but it all seemed to me to be a sacred place. Nowadays I suppose it would be called a man cave...and there is no doubt that it was a place of refuge from the hustle and bustle of family life.

In this holy space, a caravan was conceived and built.

Memories and dust remain.

...Y

Yet his legacy lives on in my son who studied cabinet making at Ryecotewood College at the time in Thame near Oxford...

Sunday's Short Story...Dan's Breakfast

Out he marched.

Out of the stuffy house and

Away out into his garden.

Off he went with his belly full.

Off with a lightness of step.

It was a good feeling to take into the new day.

Now Dan was no spring chicken.

Well to tell the truth, he was closer to ninety than eighty.

But a wee bit of a creak in the joints would surely only be improved with a jaunt out into the fresh air. 

Out into his beloved veggie patch.

And there he would stand, arms crossed over his chest and lovingly survey his domain 

with the pride of a king,

 an emperor, 

a ruler of nations.

O.k....that might be a bit over the top that last thought.

But nevertheless his pride in his garden abounded.

Mags, in the home, was a great cook.

There were no two ways about it.

She could take a few wee ingredients, throw them in a pot, add a spot of water and a smidgen of a stock cube and produce a soup to knock your socks off!

And when it came to breakfasts, well there was noone, not man nor beast could beat her breakfasts.

So on this morning she had truly excelled herself.... and Dan's expectations... and had presented him with the breakfast to beat all breakfasts.

Here's a taste of what lay glistening on his plate.

Two slices of best back bacon, crisped on the edges where a spot of fat lingered smelling of heaven.

Two fried eggs winking at him from eggy paradise with whites firm and yolks soft and runny enough to dip a toasty soldier in and bring it up to his mouth with the delicious chance that a golden drop might roll gently down his chin ...to be savoured at a later time.

A plump red tomato, halved and left sizzling in the pan 'til the edges browned with the crustiness left in the bottom of the frying pan from the cooked bacon.

And succulent sliced mushrooms sauted in butter and placed gleaming on the side of the plate.

But....creme de la creme, there on his plate a fat slice of his favourite black pudding, peppery and salted.

That was surely to replace the iron in his system.....just call me "Ironman", he thought.

So with a belly content with a full Irish breakfast and a pot of strong tea heavily laced with a spoonful...make that two or three spoonfuls...of sugar....

Out he marched.

Out into the sharpness of the January air.

Frost had left the grass with a grey green hue.

It reminded him of the colour of the classroom walls in the old school where he had been caretaker for fifty years.

It made him stop and consider how lucky he had been in life.

Well ...except for the times the school toilets had blocked, or that time the lab had been set on fire by the mad scientist of a teacher or....

Ah, that's what he would do this fine morning.

He would take all the dead wood and the autumn gatherings of dried bean stalks, dead asparagus grass and the sweetcorn stooks and have a fire.

A really big, glorious, joyous bonfire.

He would take two of the old wooden garden chairs and set them together upwind away from the smoke.

He would pop back down to the kitchen and bring Mags up and together they would sit and watch the sparks make their way up into the grey January sky.

He gathered the thinnings of autumn.. 

Stuffed paper into the empty spaces, laid the wood in a pattern as he had learnt as a boy from his dad, and who had in turn learnt from his dad.

So history progresses.

So skills are passed on.

So he took his lighter, the redundant lighter since he had given up smoking, and lit the paper.

Watched with anticipation as the dried vegetation caught fire and listened as it talked to him of times gone by, as it crackled and popped .

Mags looked out of

the kitchen window and sighed.

Another bloody bonfire!

So no washing hanging on the line again today!

Sunday's Short Story

...another from two hours of Thursday mornings at the Writers Workshop...

" An ado about nothing"

(Thanks to W. Shakespeare)

What a fuss, I thought, pursing my lips and frowning. Honestly, don't people have more important things to think about than to start complaining over such a trivial occurance?

 I may have believed that painting the house pink was a good idea. I had done it in a spur of the moment decision. The paint at B&Qs was reduced. The store was closing down and although most of the goods on the shelves were to be carted off up the road to the hyperstore on the outskirts of town, the tins of pink paint were reduced to 50p a tin.

How could I resist such a bargain? Always known as a cherry picker in the local charity shops and jumble sales, this offer was too good to walk away from.

So I didn't!

Ian helped me to prepare the walls by sanding down the brickwork with an electric drill attachment. A good lad, he's always ready to help, if not exactly the brightest star in the bunch. But he is kindly. And as I get older, it's kindness that becomes more and more important to me. 

It only took us two days to finish the job. And very good it looked, if I say so myself. 

Yes, yes,  we missed the mark a few times and Ian painted over the keyhole in the front door. Oh yes and I'll have to take a sharp blade and try to remove the rim of paint on the glass windows. Yes, yes, some things like that. But when I stand on the other side of the street and look across at what we've done I'm jolly pleased.

So, what on earth is all this fuss about? It's not as if this is the grandest of streets. Not the "right" side of town. And most of the other houses are boring. Yes that's right, boring! Nothing adventurous in any of them. 

Nothing to catch the eye, or make me smile as I walk home in an evening from the local Tesco, my shopping bags full of the day's bargains. You have to time that exactly. Too early...nothing. Too late...the dregs! I'm a cherry picker there as well. It makes for exciting meals as I never know what has been reduced 'til I get there.

Anyway, look out, here they come.  Those neighbours, with their lace curtains, acceptably painted front doors and pots of boring plants placed neatly in front. Here they come knocking on my pink  door. Bright pink I mean .

" Well", I ask, " what do you want?"..... as I smile at them and think...

What an ado about nothing!

Sunday's Short Story.

I know it's Monday...but we left the house on the Bay...Sunday evening, and scudded down the old M6 to catch The Durrell's on the box...so no time to post as we cope very nicely without WiFi in the Bay house.

(...an aside...
...the bay sunset, which is renowned anyway, was especially beautiful on Saturday because of the stormy weather....I just had to run out and catch the end of it before the sun went down.)

Prompt

The prompt from Pat F.on Thursday at The Writer's Workshop was a challenge. Not that it isn't always a challenge for me...but this one stumped me for a while. But the only thing to do in that situation is to go with the first idea that comes .. and run with it. We only have a bit over an hour to write before we read the results to each other....so here it is...

Albert was not yet ready to share his age with Ivy. She had been told that his birthday was coming up, But as his secretary she needed to be careful about broadcasting it around the office. After all Albert was the boss.The company had been good to her. Life was difficult enough since Syd died. She was still coming to terms with an empty house every evening.Ivy felt angry about it all although she knew that his family had a history of heart attacks. Nevertheless, being who she was, one who copes, it was just a few weeks after Syd's funeral that she determined to get herself a job, and get back into a daily routine.To have Albert as her boss was more that she had dared to hope for.She did have a lot of experience noted down on her c.v. But with so many people applying for so few positions, she realised that in this she had fallen on her feet.....or to be more precise...on the office chair!

Her office wall abutted Albert's office wall. And regularly she would either be in his room taking notes or receiving lists of jobs to be achieved, Or Albert would breeze into her office. No knock of course, just striding in and sitting on the edge of her desk with a file or USB to peruse But recently often it had often been with a mug of coffee at the start of the business day. That was quite a thing! In her last job she had always been expected to be both office worker and tea girl for the whole  floor. 

He was no Adonis, Albert P. Shingle. Sometimes when she thought about it she had a giggle over the name...Shingle! Was it an illness or a beach? She preferred to think it was a beach.And what did the P stand for if anything? Some people put a middle letter into their signature to make it more memorable. Of course it might just be Peter or Paul or maybe Phillip. But she liked to think it was exotic...maybe Peregrine to counteract the blandness of Albert.! Oh dear as the months had gone by that she was thinking more and more about his life outside of the office, And today she knew that he would celebrate his fiftieth. Surely it couldn't pass by unmentioned?

Someone elsewhere in the company must be planning a surprise. No word of this forthcoming...at least none that she had heard of. Her job was precious. She loved the work. She was good at it she discovered. Better than she ever imagined she would be She would let the day pass by.

Every day Ivy made sure that all she did and even what she wore was as professional and efficient as she could make it. She was taking much more thought over her appearance than she had done for many years. Was that her being professional, or did she feel at forty three she still had a lot of living ahead of her? With no children from her marriage to care for life was starting anew .So there would be no way she was going to throw a spanner in the works and step forward now to plan something for Albert's birthday.

But there were little things she could do without making an issue of it. She put a bunch of spring flowers in a pretty jug on the side of the desk - not too ostentatious just enough to sweeten the often stale office air. She bought a packet of triple chocolate biscuits to offer when he arrived  with her coffee. She wore a new blouse she had bought at the weekend. Still a crisp white cotton but with a little pie crust collar on it. And in these small ways she hoped her boss would know that she recognized both the day and also the position she held in the company.

At nine fifteen as usual Albert stepped into her office. Coffee in hand, he smiled. She offered him a cookie. He took one and hesitated. 

"It's my birthday Ivy. I was wondering if you would join me this evening for dinner? I've taken a chance that you might say yes and booked a table at a local restaurant...what do you say?"

The flowers bloomed and shared their perfume in the room, out through the door and into the rest of the building!

Oh dear...cheesy end...but what to do when Pat says.."Five more minutes and then we shall read!"

Well you bring it all to conclusion...and who doesn't love a happy ending anyway!!

By the way you could see more of my pics on my Instagram site...if you were of such a mind!!

geraldinesnape...documenting the mundane

A Story for Sunday..."Keys"

Thursday morning is writer's workshop day. I may have mentioned it before. We are given a prompt to use. It may be a word or a cutting from the paper or even a picture cut out of a magazine.

This short story started with the prompt word..."keys"

I find if I think too much I never get started...so I tend to go with the first idea in my head and write on from there...sometimes it makes sense and sometimes it even surprises me as the story enfolds.

"Keys"

Another cold damp day. I pulled the dusty velvet curtains apart...reluctantly. 

Yesterday's busking had been an utter failure. Standing for hours on the corner of high street. 

That was no fun.

The wintry winds came at me from both directions.

"Go South"...the family had said. "You'll make more money down there. Folk have more cash than us'nes up here in this god-forsaken northern coastal town."

So I went. Did what they suggested. Took their advice. Boarded the bus. Suitcase, handbag, guitar and all. What a palaver! Still I made it. Found a place to lay my head. Not grand you know, but enough. A person can live on a lot less that they think, I've discovered!

And here was another day. I gathered my equipment into a large cotton bag. Carefully stached  the sheet music in a folder... for some things are more precious than others, and the music is one of them. Most of this had been collected during college days. Precious notes bought at the city music store. Carefully chosen to suit my voice and simple enough to be fit for busking. Well what else can a musician do after the heady years of training.? I followed the trend.

The bus stopped in the town centre and I made my way to my usual spot. I'd taken a few days after arriving in the port to look for a good site. This seemed the best. It was on a corner where the two busiest shopping streets met. A good little overhang jutting out from a roof giving me some protection from the rain.Never mind that I hadn't reckoned on a pesky southern wind that couldn't make up it's mind which way to blow. Life  throws a googley or two to catch us unawares!

The town was just starting to get busy. Office workers and school children hurried along with heads down preparing mentally for another day behind a desk. Early shoppers were out for bargains. Scanning the shop windows , looking for the best sales, the 2 for 1, the great bargain. All intent on getting somewhere. this was not the time of day for lingering. Nevertheless I set up the stand and pegged some music to it. I'd brought extra pegs just to defy the wind! Dad always said ,"Be prepared"! I slipped the guitar out of the case, slung the strap around one shoulder and tuned the strings. It's hard to keep them in tune in such weather...but noone would notice if it was slightly out.as they hurried past.

She wasn't hurrying. The young mum. She looked lost I'd say. A child clutched her legs with a fierceness of possession. There are many like her in this southern port. They slide quietly in from trucks and boats. Looking for what I was looking for as well I suppose. A life, some hope, peace and security. Or at least a place of safety to lay their head at the end of the day.

I had been singing for a good hour when I saw her again. The child with his wild eyes. Her face white  and her clothes mismatched. It marked her out as a stranger. She came shyly up to me and made a request. "Did I know this?...did I have the words and music?

" Yes." I asked her for a key...it was the key of C if I remember... and she started to sing to my quitar accompaniment.

A soulful voice, pure on the notes, beautiful with meaning, leaving me breathless.....poured out of the young woman.Tear filled my eyes and I was unable to speak as she finished.

And then she walked away.  The child whimpered and clutched her hand as she led him .

I gained some composure and glanced down at the money cap by my feet. For the first time that week it was full of coins.  

A Poem for Thursday.

A Poem for Thursday

Today at the writers' workshop the prompt was from Shauna. She gave each of us some pages with interesting lists, to make us think about our lives and the people associated with us at various stages of it.

Time Line..............I choose 10 - 15. ...it was the 50s, it was Co Down, and all was well in my world.

Before the Fall

Time was endless, friends were many.

Vicky and Sandy, and I was Gerry.

We laughed a lot, linked arms and talked

About boys we fancied and those we stalked.

A caravan was where we gathered 

Under the stars at Ballyferris

Our bare feet kicking the silver sand.

Where time was endless, nothing planned.

"There's  Cassiopeia and there's the Plough".

"Oh your luck's in, there's a shooting star!"

We raced down maran covered dunes

And harmonised on Western tunes.

And miles away on the far horizon

Were ships bound for ports in the land of England.

We seldom thought of our futures then,

But time and tide don't wait for man.

They pass unseen and never waver

Then gather up all in their net without favour.

And I daren't go back to that holy place

Where time stood still. A time when space

And mercy was real, before the fall

That enveloped and overwhelmed us all.

Writer's Workshop and A Poem for Thursday..."I can't write like Stephen Berg".

 ...Thursday writer's workshop is always a joy...not because of what I write ...but to hear the amazing stories and poems that emerge from each of the writers' pens over less than two hours work....
The prompt this week was the word.."Red"...ohhh...red mist...red carpet...red flowers...red blood!!!

Mine was blood and DNA....
"A Phone Call"
The phone rang and I answered it. Just a phone call, like any other phone call. A call from the sister. I say THE sister as I only had one sister. She was the little pet of the family. Seven years between us meant that I was the big sister. I was the "can you look after your sister love?" person designated to take her to whatever I was going to myself. Friend's house...shopping in town...rugby match at the sports ground down the Ravenhill....Can you imagine a seven year old standing in the crowd when it swayed left and right as the ball alternated up and down the pitch? Mum had no idea what a rugby crowd was like. So I'm yelling part time for the school team and the rest of the time for the sister to "watch out!"..."stop standing on my toes!"..."leave go of my legs!"
Anyway, back to the phone call. Well we're great friends now. Although we've gone in very different directions, we're closer than ever. And it's a bad week if we don't chat and catch up on family news, and find something to have a belly laugh about. All the years of memories good and bad, happy and sad with the three major adults in the family gone now. So we cling to our relationship and recognize the stabilizing effect it has on our everyday existance.
Everyone has things that happen to "upset the apple cart". The unexpected, round the corner things. You know..illness, separation, divorce, finance, redundancy....need I go on! So it's always good to have absolutes to keep your feet firmly on the ground of life. We find normalising situations as quickly as possible a good premise to go on. After all everything is normal when you add up your experiences and divide by the number you first thought of!
And phone calls are such a great normaliser in our modern world. Especially now that we all have our mobiles....mobile phones that is...not mobile homes! Too normal I think when I see the young gazing into screens or business people in cafes or on trains instructing and pontificating in loud important voices...bah!
The sun was shining in through the french windows as the phone rang. I pulled the curtain across to stop me squinting in the bright sunlight. Apart from that I often pulled it across just to see the cicadas in the pattern of the cloth. I bought it at a flea market in Provence many years ago. I find it good to have happy memories around..oh and also good if the phone call should get a bit boring or one-sided. 
But that's not normally the way with the sister can I say...too much to gossip about. Family goings-on to relate. We trip over ourselves wordily getting so much into the call.Outdoing each other in funny anecdotes and dissing those others whose antics make us shake our heads. It's the same in every family. There are those you are glad are members and then there are others who although not on your wavelength actually make for an interesting conversation..you know what I mean...sometimes we call it a rant...it eases the tensions of life!
"Hi!" I said. "How's things?". There was silence. "Are you still there?". "Yes". The sister sighed. "Something up?"...I anticipated a bit of a rant. Nothing. "Speak to me...."
 She spoke."It's true....we have another sister!". 

Then this afternoon I read Antony Wilson's wonderful poetry blog..."Lifesaving Poems"..blogs like this...so full of information and poets that I've yet to explore, have been a veritable godsend in the blogger world...and so I said...I can't write like Stephen Berg...and then promptly wrote ...like Geraldine Snape!!!


I can't write like Stephen Berg
But Margaret says,"I like your asides."
Those are the funny bits I put in the writing
At the Thursday workshop.
I think women are good at asides
It takes the sting out of the parts of life
We want to normalise.
Normalise...what's that all about?
I learnt that from Doreen years ago
She needed it.
And the"professionals" said
"That how you'll cope with everything."
They were dead right there.
We took it on as a mantra.
You know those words the Buddists talk about?
But we didn't think George Harrison's
Hari, Hari, suited our situation.
So we took on,"normalise",
That's all we needed to say to one another.
George put the shelves up in the off license
When he was just seventeen we heard.
That's an aside, things were getting too serious,
So I put that in.
But I like the story anyway.
The potter took them down as soon as we bought the shop.

Before everything...dad.

Dad's garage....was not for the car.
For on a rough wooden bench...with oil stains from sump oil spilled from the pot that was used to seal the wooden and tarred roof ....stretching across the garden end ... the important joinery was carried out.
 An ancient wooden and metal vice...with a long handle slotted through the turning screw and two balls of metal...one at either end  to hold the bar in place...was screwed to the bench.
Along the walls, held in place with strips of wood tacked on to the vertical structure, were off cuts of timber kept for use in future assemblages.
Under the work bench and to the right in the darkness was an ancient travel trunk with a domed lid and wooden slats that held down the oiled fabric on the top.
 In this trunk were kept scrolls extolling the different members of the Williamson family and their academic successes.
 And also in this treasure box under the scrolls were hidden beautiful 1st world war postcards with  messages of love embroidered on silken gauze and pictures woven to depict exotic places.
To the left and behind the side door, a dog's bed with straw and water dish, for dad was born a farmer's son and took a hound with him when he went hunting .He was always a country man at heart.
His woodworking tools were beautiful . Handmade by himself at the City technical college in his free time. Oak and mahogany handles turned and often enscribed with his name D.G.McC. There were wooden boxes on the top of the workbench holding nails, screws, hinges and other equipment in separate sections.
A window above the bench looked out to his garden of roses and perennials.And always a bed of sweet pea to scent the air at the end of summer.
Above his head, slotted along the roof joists were more lengths of wood. Whether they were ever used I cannot say but it all seemed to me to be a sacred place. Nowadays I suppose it would be called a man cave...and there is no doubt that it was a place of refuge from the hustle and bustle of family life.

In this holy space, a caravan was conceived and built.

A Poem for Thursday...for MTB..guest post Bill Webb

Ceramic Workshop ...

Today was the first of the summer workshop's...and the sun shone...hooray!

We were able to eat lunch in the garden which is always a treat...

...and the finished work was great. The potter had a few ideas ready for those who were first timers.
But the others came through with lots of creative thoughts...that's what makes the group more and more exciting to work with.

...Anne...

...Bibu...

...Denise...

...Gill...

...Gwen...

...Jim...

...John...

...Barbara...

...Margaret...

...with a little bit of input and advice from the potter!!

...hmm?...blankets?

well it is the north of England..

we are just thankful for the rain to stop and the sun to shine!!!

Cakes at The Potters House.

This is just a taster of the workshop that was held here on Saturday by our daughter.
No doubt Neviepiecakes will have a super post on all of this soon.
But in the mean time I just want to show some of the things that happened...and admit that I felt quite emotional as she taught these thirteen women to paint on cakes.

Natasha on the left discussing painting technique.

We used to say to our two children as they were growing up..."don't go into teaching!"
It was a reaction to the tiredness that we felt and the sense of suffocation in the teaching world in the 80s...at least that's how we felt and why we got out, to set up The Potters House here in Penketh.
But both have in their own way gone into ..if not teaching...then passing on information of their skills, to others.

 As usual all three of the studios were used.

Your's truly provided food and sustenance. Lots of drinks to keep the inspiration flowing...

and a spot of lunch to rest the weary brains!

And the potter didn't waste any opportunities to talk clay......

Happy days!!

Palette Knives at Dawn.

A palette knife workshop at The Potters House today, with the potter as chef du jour in the kitchen.

To start the group off on a positive note...

I explained that if you can butter bread or ice a cake, you are on a winner, using a palette knife for painting.

So with that "great" explanation under their belts...they  set forth with their boards and canvases.

Brave women!

Margaret...

Dot...

Denise...

Angela...

Gwen...

and Norma.

I love the way each person's work is so different...just as each of us differ...it makes life more colourful.

The food was excellent ...of course...and the rain dried up long enough for us to sit out at the garden table.

Then the day was brought to a grand finale with the entrance of the potter's chocolate cake to be taken up with a refreshing cup of tea.

We had a critique on the art...and all said they enjoyed the day.

In my defense...I had prepared a document for each of them re. equipment and techniques so they knew a little bit more than...

....buttering bread...but the metaphor helped!

So I bid a good bye to most of them until September.

"Goodbyee

goodbyee

wipe the tear baby dear from your eyee!"

The W. I. workshop.

It seems ages since we had this workshop, but it was such a good one, I've saved it 'til I had the time to post. We've been so busy recently that I think more than two weeks have gone by since I used the blog!
Hope I haven't forgotten what to do!

This one, however, is all about those mighty women who are I think are known as...
 "The Backbone of England!"
We love having the local W.I. groups here at the Potters House studios.
And what with the opening of the Alice Show at the Tate Liverpool, then this is very apt, as these women live in that very area where once upon a time, the "godly" Charles Dodson was vicar!
But I'm always on my best cooking practice when they come...because even the mighty M.and S. take their cake ideas from the W.I. markets of the land.
So we start as we mean to go on....coffee and hot milk with freshly baked St. Clements biscuits....oranges and lemons to you and me.

Then they get down to the job in hand of creating some ceramic marvels...always cared for by the potter himself.

But these are no slouches when it comes to being creative as this group has been before and entered some of their work in the Tatton Show...

 and ....hurray...won prizes.

Bodily sustenance in the form of lunch arrives at half past midday...

..and not a moment too soon as it's tiring work pulling and pushing clay around to get the shape that you want.

 Little french savoury pastries...and greek cucumber salad...

...Mary's favourite carrot and orange salad...

...potato salad recipe care of the german side of the family... and a freshly baked honey ham to go with them.

Then Dutch Apple pie made by the potter himself...it's a bit like rolling out clay!

Then refreshed it's back to the tables...though some have never left them...

 ...and  so on towards the finish at four.....

...when dry mouths can be once again refreshed with that brew at the heart of all Brits....tea...oh, and cake! 

...lemon drizzle and chocolate and orange gateaux....

The finished work is left to dry completely before baking in the kiln as usual.

Then the potter will glaze those that are ready.

...oh yes and did I mention the laughing and jokes they brought with them...quite reminded me of Aunt Helen!