January brings the gloom

                                                         January brings the snow,

                                                         Makes our feet and fingers glow.

                                                   (from The Garden Year by Sara Coleridge)

I can remember as a child reading the poem from which the January quote at the top of this page comes. I always thought that Sara Coleridge's words must be right and that is how the weather should be each month of the year. I was disappointed when it wasn't. As I grew up I came to the realisation that the world isn't like that and as I have grown older I have found that, for me at least, January brings the gloom. It's the month of the year when my SAD hits worse than all others. Maybe because we have the bright lights and family get togethers of Christmas and then, come January, the lights and decorations have gone, family have departed to their various homes and the dark days press down on me more. Far from bringing snow, the month usually only brings dark, dull days and lots of rain. Plenty of time indoors to reflect and remember. January brings many sad memories and Facebook has a habit of reminding me of them. This year has been harder again because it began with the loss of one friend and then another passed in the middle of the month. Unfortunately both funerals were today, at the same time. I could only attend one. January has really hit hard.

My mother would tell me that it is no use moping or complaining, that that won't help me or others, She would say never to apologise for caring and it's good to cry for a while when you lose someone but then you must focus on continuing life for yourself and those around you. 'Look for something beautiful' she'd say. So today that is just what I have done. I have seen huge numbers come out to say goodbye - a sure sign of being loved - and that is beautiful. I watched the drizzle turn to sunshine as the funeral ended. I saw my first snowdrops at the cemetery. My mother always came home with a smile on her face each year when she had discovered her first snowdrops 'The worst of winter is over' she would say 'Spring is on its way.' I would watch my mother's mood lift and she would sing as she pottered around the house.

Today those snowdrops lifted me. They told me that winter is nearly over, that better days lie ahead. They brought back memories of my mother and in doing so reminded me that no-one is ever really gone, so long as love for them beats in our hearts and memories of them play in our heads. I am lucky enough to have very happy memories of many fine friends to make me smile on a dark winter's day. I have photos of fun and crazy times, fancy dress, birthday parties, holidays, sports events, us all wearing the weirdest clothes which we thought were cool at the time. I have folders where relatives and friends have written poems and recipes. I look at their handwriting and remember the time that I asked for each recipe and they patiently wrote it down despite having a million other things to do. The more that I think about it my Mum is right I should be smiling at my life and its memories because I have been so lucky to have such amazing people in my life. They shared their love and their time for which I am eternally grateful. They have given me encouragement when it was needed and, as true friends do, firm words when I really had to hear them.

So tomorrow begins a new month. I intend to take that month and use it to look forward and watch for the beauty and the joy in each day. While I pick myself up I will spend it with my lovely family but I will use my time to make new memories and share love and laughter. I will plant summer bulbs and tidy my garden. I will also take time out just for me to read, to be quiet and reflect. That time is needed sometimes, especially as the winter weather continues but then I will get up again and have some fun. Then maybe come March I'll be ready to explore and try new things, The days will be lighter, there will be new life all around me and I will smile, look up at my Mum in heaven and tell her 'Oh Mum, you were right, it is a beautiful world and I will enjoy every minute I spend in it.'  Because, after all, that is why we are here - to live, love and share happiness.

There is a Beautiful World Out There

 

Today I heard the sad news that Bernard Cribbins had died. He was a wonderful actor and above all, from all I've read and heard about him, a kind and wonderful man. I remember watching him in Doctor Who when I was small and again when I was grown. I loved him reading the stories on Jackanory and as Mr Perks in The Railway Children. His comic songs kept us happy on many car journeys on Junior Choice. Whenever I read an article or saw a post about him it was always positive and filled with admiration for his thoughtfulness. The world is a little sadder for his passing. 

I started thinking about him and then it made me think of other people who have passed who were lovely and kind. There are so many of them. I think that so many times we see news articles and social media posts that focus on the negative and we forget that the world is full of good people carrying out daily acts of kindness. The media encourages us to focus on the negative. I remember when my daughter was suffering with anxiety and there was a shooting at the Charlie Hebdo newspaper offices in Paris. It made her feel unsafe and that there were people ready to commit atrocities around every corner. I pointed out to her while watching the news that the perpetrators were just two men and that she needed to look at the hundreds of people queuing around the corner and down the road to donate blood to help. Two people filled with hate carried out the act but hundreds filled with love tried to help. 

You always find people trying to help wherever you go because the world is filled with good, kind people. Last week there was a burst pipe in our area and our water supply failed. People rallied round to support those who needed help. If someone didn't have a car to go to the bottled water stations, others went for them. People on social media who were still connected were offering to fill bottles for anyone who needed it.

Last month a friend had to go with her husband to hospital. He was discharged in the middle of the night and there was a four hour wait for an ambulance to take him back to care. Another patient's relative had a vehicle that would take his wheelchair and they drove them both back. I see these stories all the time and yet I hear people saying that the world is not what it was and nobody looks after each other any more. This is not what I have found. We have wonderful neighbours and a lovely supportive community. I am sure we are not alone in this.

I am quite a scatty person and have left bags, cameras and all sorts behind in cafes. Every time when I have realised and gone back someone has handed them in and I have left with my possessions intact. Every time. My Mum always said that 99% of the world were good people, that you had to be careful of the 1% but also remember what a small number of people they are. 

I am heartbroken that we live in an age where more and more foodbanks are needed because of the greed of the wealthiest but I am also proud that I live in a country where people care enough to look after others. And we do, we live in a land filled with amazing people full of love.

If you are having a bad day I want you to remember that. Someone out there needs your love and your care. The world is a better place for your being in it and if you can help someone else - even if it is just with a smile or a kind word then you have made the world a better place. One small act of kindness resonates and often encourages another. 

Don't let those who would convince you the world is a horrible place win. Yes, sometimes bad things happen, but there is so much good out there and we need to focus on that and help it to spread. I assure you that there is a beautiful world out there.

A Love of Victorian Literature

 

My favourite literary genre is Victorian Literature (1837-1901). I can't get enough of it. I have met a few people who tell me that they find it long winded and boring. I leave feeling like they have criticised one of my children.

I am not alone in my love of this period. The nineteenth century is regarded by many people, myself included, as the golden age of English Literature. At this time the novel became the most popular form of writing in England.

Many of the novels of the period deal with the realities and issues of the day, like the dangers of factory work, the difficulties faced by the lower classes and the way women and children were treated. One of the things I love about these stories is that in so many of them hard work, determination and love win in the end, with just a little luck thrown in. Virtue is usually rewarded and those who do wrong are suitably punished. In the latter part of the era, following Dickens' death in 1870, authors tended to provide fewer happy endings. These books I have really had to work with.

My love of Victorian literature began when I was seven. Miss Whitaker, my top infants teacher read us Black Beauty (1877). I pestered my Mum for a copy of my own and read it many times. She also bought me a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses (1885). I loved these poems about shadows, going to bed at daytime in summer and the moon with a face like the clock in the hall. Then she gave me a copy of Alice Through the Looking Glass (1871). I loved the sheer weirdness of Lewis Carroll.

When I was ten my Mum presented me with two more Victorian novels - and abridged Wuthering Heights (1847) and Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol (1843). I loved both of these books. it's funny but until I was writing this blog I hadn't realised what an important part my Mum played in my choice of favourite genre.

For O level we studied The Importance of Being Earnest ((1895) and there began a lifelong love of Oscar Wilde. As a class we were given the choice for one of our novels between Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd and Lawrence's Son's and Lovers. I'm sure that you have guessed that Hardy was my choice but the majority of my class opted for Lawrence, which was very good but I still felt cheated.

By my late teens I was Bronte obsessed and devoured the unabridged Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre (1847), Agnes Grey (1847) and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848). I then moved on to Dickens. I found his writing too detailed and descriptive. A friend told me that he had been paid by the instalments and eked them out. Maybe I needed and abridged Dickens! A few years ago I decided to try his writing again now that I am older and began with A Tale of Two Cities, which I absolutely loved. I enjoy his descriptive writing now and am gradually working my way through his works.

Another favourite writer of  mine is Elizabeth Gaskell. Such a wonderful writer, her books are filled with a strong sense of how well she knew the world outside her home and how much she wanted people to realise the unfairness of it and the bad treatment of the poor. I began with Mary Barton (1845). I was hooked and quickly moved on to North and South (1854) and Cranford (1853). Recently I read Wives and Daughters (1866) her last and unfinished novel. Oh how I love her work and I still have quite a few of her books to read. Although her writing can be grim and gritty I love her happy endings.

As I said before, after 1870 happy endings became less common. That is where I hit my downfall with Victorian Literature. The first Thomas Hardy I attempted was Tess of the D'Urbervilles (1891). I sobbed my way through it. I followed this with Jude the Obscure (1895) - that book destroyed me and I swore that I would never read another Hardy novel. Thirty years later I read that Hardy didn't write another novel after the criticism of Tess and Jude and I felt guilty and decided that it was time that I dealt with a little reality in amongst my happy endings. I read Far From the Madding Crowd (1874) and loved it. There are now quite a few Hardy's in my TBR pile.

Many wonderful Victorian authors I have only read one book by and I still  have lots of works by George Eliot, Wilkie Collins and Robert Louis Stevenson waiting to be read. There were so many books written at this time that will delight me for years to come.

In amongst my favourite happy endings I also found some super Gothic horror that I loved - Frankenstein (1818), Dracula (1897), The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891) and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886). They knew how to do horror in the nineteenth century.

A few years ago I decided that I needed to branch out with my reading. I'm reading much more widely now but, while I enjoy the variety, my heart still belongs with the Victorian novel. I love the detailed, descriptive writing, I love the moralistic tales and I love the fact that it makes me think about the treatment of the poor today, the need for worker's rights and how many other things still apply today.

There is so much Victorian Literature that I still haven't read, all written with the descriptive detail that I love. I will continue to broaden my reading but I shall be slipping a few more Victorian books into my pile each month.

Where does a love of reading start?

 

Where does a love of reading start?

Yesterday I was talking with someone on Twitter who had said how shocked she was to have visited someone who had not a single book in their house. When she asked they told her that they didn't read. I am always surprised by this, not in a judging way, but just because I cannot imagine a life without books.

For as long as I can remember books have been a part of my life. There obviously was a time before I could read but I cannot remember it or indeed learning to read, it just seems to be a joy that was always there.

My earliest memory of reading is lying in bed at night reading Bunny Hopwell's First Spring. I read it every night for weeks. I loved watching the little rabbit's confusion and how he learned. Maybe I identified with him because he had older brothers and sisters who knew about the world. I shared a room with my sister who was ten years older than me, who knew so much and was a keen reader.

We didn't have money for lots of books but my Mum would take me to Woolworths on the last Friday of every month to buy a new Ladybird Well-loved Tales book. I can remember reading them over and over and feeling like I had been given the world to have my own collection. My Mum also had friends who passed on books for me so bedtime reading was extended. I especially remember  The Little Prince, Asterix The Gaul and Alice Through the Looking Glass. I also had hand me downs from my brother like The Golden Wonder Book filled with history, science and poetry. That one I would read over and over downstairs after tea.

I had wonderful teachers at school. They read amazing books to us and I loved to listen. I pestered my Mum for special favourites to reread on my own - Black Beauty in top Infants and The Hundred and One Dalmations in first year juniors. I still  have both of those books now and they still bring back happy childhood memories when I read them.

I can remember my Dad coming home from work and lying on the sofa devouring books. The two I especially remember were Kidnapped and The Count of Monte Cristo because he talked about those with so much enthusiasm. I still have my Dad's copy of the latter, as you can see, but I still haven't read it. It was one of my Dad's favourites and I'm scared in case I don't like it as much as he did. One day I will read it.

When I was ten my Mum brought home two more wonderful books for me. Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol which  I have read every Christmas since. My original copy is now barely holding together so my daughter bought me a new copy a few years ago. I still love it as much as I did the first time I read it. She also bought me an abridged copy of Wuthering Heights. I was amazed by the writing and then my Mum told me about the Brontes (sorry my computer won't put the umlaut over the e). That was the first time I began to think about the authors as people. I had only ever considered the books as worlds to get lost in before and not that there were real humans with lives of their own behind these wonderful novels.

My Mum also took me to the Bronte Parsonage to see where the three sisters lived and there began my adoration of the Brontes. Over the years my collection has extended. I wonder whether my Mum realised how much enthusiasm she instilled in me over the years and what she would think if she saw my ever-increasing Bronte collection.

Mum and I would often sit reading together. We mostly had completely different tastes in books but, as she would tell you, everyone is different and it would be a dull world if we all liked the same things.

My reading enthusiasm continued throughout high school. For O and A level I had the most wonderful English teacher. I think he was coming up to retirement but he had lost none of his enthusiasm for the subject. Thanks to him I started to read and love Jane Austen, John Keats. John Wyndham. He even made me enthusiastic for D H Lawrence which, believe me, in the 15 year old I was, was no mean feat. I went to restoration plays because of him - and I loved them, so thank you Mr Smith for your enthusiasm.

In my first year at university I had a lecturer who seemed to be mostly going through the motions and wasn't enthusiastic for any of the texts he worked through with us. I never enjoyed any of the books I studied with him. Others filled me with light and enthusiasm and made me want to read more.

On our second date my husband presented me with a new book. An Isabel Allende. He certainly knew the way to a girl's heart.

When I had my children one of my favourite times of all was bedtime reading. We'd read old favourites and new books and the enjoyment for all of us was immense. I was so sad when they were too old to want bedtime stories. I miss acting and doing all the voices. I missed an excuse to read childhood favourites too. Now I realise that I don't need an excuse and I read them anyway. I am currently loving working my way through the Anne books again. 

Over the years I have explored new authors and genres, mostly because of encouragement from people who loved them. My reading world continues to expand. I take a book everywhere I go and I love to explore the world and get lost in books. So thank you to all those people who inspired me along the way.

Whatever books you enjoy are wonderful and never be told differently. If you are happily reading and you are enthusiastic for what you are reading then you have the world.

In answer to the question I posed at the start of this blog. Where does a love of reading start? It starts with enthusiasm.

The Love of Ladybird Books

 

The first books I ever remember collecting were the Ladybird Well-loved Tales series. I saw them for the first time when I started Infants school and immediately fell in love with them. I also found that if you were very good in school then you could be chosen to sit outside the classroom of an afternoon and read them. I immediately became one of the best behaved children in the class just to get a chance to sit in the corridor to read and reread those lovely books.

I could tell you the tale of Chicken Licken, The Gingerbread Boy and The Three Billy Goats Gruff by heart pretty soon . I obviously must have pestered my Mum because she began to take me to Woolworths on the last Friday of each month to buy a new Ladybird book. 

The first two I remember buying were Rapunzel and Sleeping Beauty. I read them over and over and oh how I wanted to have the witch's vegetable garden - minus the witch of course. My lovely Mum would take me for my next book come rain or shine, even after the horror of Rumplestiltskin. The drawing of that character gave me nightmares and I still get edgy when I open that book now. I hid it at the bottom of my toy box and it didn't come out again until I was a big, brave girl of seven. he still made me uneasy but by then I was a completionist and had to read them all through in order, afraid or not.

My favourite of all the Ladybird books were Cinderella and The Princess and the Pea. They had more magic for me than all the other books put together. Of course I thought the blue dress Cinderella wore to the second ball was the best and her wedding dress was so boring - white, why have white for weddings? I wanted colour and bows. (In case you're wondering my views changed as I grew up and I married in ivory, no bows).

I would read those two books over and over in bed at night, sometimes by my sister's torchlight because I should have been asleep. Nothing would keep me from my beloved Ladybird books.

When I moved across the road to Junior school, oh joy of joys, there were more Ladybird books to discover. Mrs Brown my lovely teacher had a selection of them on her nature table. I found that if you offered to tidy at playtime you got to stay and read the Ladybird nature books when you were done. I tidied as often as I could just to get to those books. Woolworths didn't have them and in those days we didn't have a bookshop in our village.

I moved into second year Juniors and my class was back in the Infants dining room. I had a teacher who wasn't very kind and it was the worst year of my time in primary school. But she did have a whole bookcase filled with Ladybird History books - yes there were more of them. I learned so much history that year from those ladybird books. In a period of respite from the not too nice teacher we had a student who on realising how I devoured the Ladybird books introduced me to the science section and even more nature books. She might as well have given me the Crown Jewels.

It was at this time that I found out about Pierre and Marie Curie and radium and would come home telling my parents all about their wonderful discoveries. I didn't talk much about what I did at school but I did talk a lot about all  that I had learned from Ladybird books in quiet time.

As I moved into third year Juniors I decided that I was too big for these books and they were all given away to a friend of my mothers who had a younger child. That is something I regretted when my daughter was born and I wanted to introduce her to the delights of Well Loved Tales. To my horror, when I got to the bookshop, I found that they had been updated and no longer had the beautiful oil painting pictures I loved and remembered. I did manage to build up a collection of them eventually with trips to Hay on Wye and many second hand shops, all apart from Cinderella which I couldn't track down anywhere so my daughter missed that delight as a child. A few years ago Ladybird brought out a special edition and I saw it in Waterstones and completed my set.

Every so often one of the Ladybird books I adored comes to mind and the family has to listen to me going on about how wonderful it was.

That is how I came to have a collection of the Seasons books again. After hearing me sing their praises over and over, my lovely husband tracked them down and bought them for me. I still get them out as each season changes and read them over again because once you have loved Ladybird books you always love Ladybird books. I still collect them and I still get excited when I find one I remember from my childhood. I think it was Ladybird that made me a reader.

Burnt Embers

                                                Burnt embers in the morning sky
                                                The ashes of past mistakes
                                                Long cluttering her consciousness
                                                Blown on autumn winds
                                                Clearing her mind for future plans

                                                The fire begins to breathe again
                                                Burning over the rooftops
                                                Chasing the geese, not clipping wings
                                                Illuminating her darkened world
                                                Adding red and gold to monochrome

                                               With sudden hope she lifts her eyes
                                                As colour fills her soul
                                                Renewing within a lust for life
                                                She opens wide the door
                                                And the black dog leaves home

On The Importance of Niceness

One of the first things my mother ever told me was to 'be nice' and to 'play nice'. I didn't appreciate the importance of the life lesson she was teaching me at the time. My mother had many phrases to help prepare me for the world - sometimes, I'm ashamed to say, I forget some of them.

These days the word nice seems to be denigrated. Being nice is often seen as a sign of weakness and naivety. Believe me if you meet really nice people they are anything but. It takes a great deal of strength to be nice in this world, to not retaliate angrily when provoked - I try hard, but sometimes I fail. I always greatly admire those who can maintain their composure in the face of great provocation.

As a country I always thought that we were generally nice, polite and caring. Over recent years I have watched this vision collapse as I have watched politicians fight for the good of themselves, not their country. I have  watched powerful people manipulate and divide the population and some even encourage hatred and division. My country has changed from a place I loved to one I am often ashamed of.  The current political climate and newspapers encourage anger and I see so many people, who would have agreed to disagree, arguing vociferously. Sadly social media has given an extra voice to to this vitriol with people rising to bait and anger increasing.

So what can we do? My mother always told me to never retaliate with anger -'That's just lowering yourself to their level' Another favourite phrase of hers was 'Don't bear grudges, because while your sitting at home nursing your grudge, they're out dancing' Over the years I have seen the wisdom of her words. Whenever possible, when faced with an argumentative person who is not prepared to listen or debate, I walk away with my dignity intact. Indeed I am firmly of the opinion that when a person begins to yell, they have already lost the argument.

As I was leaving to start my first day at university I was quite anxious. My mother's advice was 'Just be kind' then she followed me out to the hall and added 'But don't let anyone walk over you!' Wise words from a wise woman. She taught me to stand up for myself too but in an assertive, not an aggressive manner. 'You can say no nicely Janet' As the saying goes 'it costs nothing to be nice' I try to be so whenever I can and I usually find that people are invariably nice in return. Over the years I have met a lot of very nice people and, from each of them I have learned a little more about the kind of person I would like to be, I'm not there yet. I hope I do get there one day. I try hard because I want my mother to look down and be proud of me.

If we all try hard to be a little kinder and a little nicer we can change the world for the better. Try random acts of kindness, a nice word or a compliment to brighten someone's day and don't rise to anger bait or get drawn into other people's aggressive worlds, Every time you refuse to retaliate there is a little less anger in the world - and you did that.

Shall we all make an agreement to try being a little nicer, a little kinder and a little more understanding? Each time we do we make this world a better place.

Oh and remember the words of the song 'Those hardest to love need it the most' - you could make a real difference in someone's life.

Above all - just play nice.