Dad's Passing

DAD’s PASSING

They were coming in 

from the road

out of the cold black.

In from the noise 

of cars shooting past

on rain swept tarmac,

throwing up echoes 

of smooth ice scrapings.

They came into the small front terraced room,

looked at the shocked ghosts

waking up,

in a new Jerusalem.

The body resting to the left along the wall,

a coffin beside the good cups 

and plates with summer rose gardens.

Their glances darted over 

in search of faces they knew 

to land their eyes upon -

the terrible shock and disbelief.

Pushing down to the back of the house,

where the tea churn boiled continuously

and the breath of the quiet prayers 

laid over the layers of sandwiches and cake,

that would later fuel thoughts 

and the bellies of past memories

sending them home

well on into the night.

My mother appeared slowly and unevenly 

in the front of the house

and then to the back -

between both places

making an infrequent burst of laughter 

heating a damp corner of the world

for a moment. I sat, held bowls 

of steaming green soup,

moving on to another place,

taking cups and trays of tea with me 

under arms and settling down 

on mahogany toffee coloured tables.

The frill of the white surround, crisp

holding in a comfortable presence of my father.

Close to the silken satin of the whiteness 

and the good deaf ear.

The wooden rosary beads folded in curling movements

among his fingers that once strummed electric guitars,

the hard skin now sunken among the marble marks,

the heads and the coats of mixed browns and greys,

hugs and kisses on flushed cheeks.

People standing at odd angles around each other, 

hovering at the open door,

backs up against the wall and the part of the wallpaper

that had, in time, faded.

Waiting by partners, smiling; with nods in the right places.

And the single chime of my grandmother’s old mantle clock

moved for the first time in over 30 years,

making us speak of times past.

© Brenda Woods  January 2014

When days were good - September 2007. At the launch of my first book No Deals. My sister Sandra is to the left. Dad to the right.

Hypertension Hyphenating

Is hyphenation the same as hypertension? Because, if it is, I think I have it. 

It is swimming around in my head, and trying to find a nice little row to explode upon and then mercifully die.

I have had the pleasure of languishing lazily between the sheets today. Not in some salubrious silken satin ensemble complete with pelmet frill surround (which, gone are the days, due to the mismatched oblong, double and king sized bed sheets and duvets now to be found in the hot press all scampered together in vague arrangements according to easy access – or in other words – all of the sheets and covers stuffed into various pillow cases as colour-co-ordinated attempts to be more proficient and housewifey – ish).

Rather, the husband has decided that as it is a Bank Holiday (which should be followed by the usual hurrays! But is not – more a feeble – yeh?) I am to be given the day to myself to do with what I want – to pile the dishwasher high with grease stained pans, and unflavoured mugs which have lain in said dishwasher for a week, as yet to be turned-on.

Which in itself makes me think of a lot of others things that could be mentioned along with that last sentence, but I won’t follow suite.

So I have cheerily bye-byed the children and husband (sorry, the husband, son and surly teenager) out the door, (which just banged once with good-old-teen-spirit) and watched the car move, with them in it, in the direction of the main road, (teenager giving me another of her hooded-eye looks from back seat window). I closed the front door and sighed – YES!

For some daring ME TIME! Went back to the kitchen table to read magnificent magazine on home design, decorating – CHECK OUT REMA’S NEW KITCKEN LOOK – Shaker, Quaker, something like that.

The proportions of swags and bunting and co-ordinated counter-tops, presses and tables, was enough to make me start having palpitations of excitement – tinged with dark forebodings of “doing something” to the kitchen during the mid-term break.

Rather than concentrating on what might look good in my own kitchen I recklessly thumbed through two more magazines and then scanned the Net for possible look-a-like rooms to ply my taste-buds upon.

That’s when it all went a bit pear-shaped with the sinking feeling that no matter what I was going to do, it would not live up to the high expectations of REMA’S NEW KITCHEN LOOK.

She had pelmets on things, like tops of windows and a huge dark coffee table with a throw of pink and mauve just dashed onto it in a rug she had constructed herself using her various talents, from sewing up a hem at the whiff of a pincushion – to turning up drapes and firing out small triangular nautical bunting in the blink of a jealous eye.

The first thing REMA suggested was: Find a THEME for your room. Very simple, my theme – County Cottage, no, I think Studio Apartment or maybe the dreaded Functional But Fun.

Covers everything – can’t go wrong with that. Just once it’s not too scientificy and techno.

WHAT WOULD I LIKE TO SEE IN MY NEW ROOM? I would like to see some furniture and the sink.

CAN YOU MAKE A VISION BOARD OF THIS? Yes. I spent half an hour eagerly cutting out shapes from the pages, using the son’s ‘good’ bluntish scissors – sticking together the colours I would choose to co-ordinate if they just so happened to be available in the nearest drapers in town.

I also resisted the urge to completely cross-match with a Match Attack Magazine, managing to just serrate and stick one photo of Lionel Messi (footballer chap) into the top right hand corner near a kitchen chair. Also put head and shoulders of REMA into the equation to balance the look.

We are going for a bit of blue, and lots of green ferns at odd angles near accent walls. Besides the little paint-your-cupboards white, I came across a lovely idea to put a CREATIVE SHELF, onto a wall.

MAKE YOUR MARK. Rema was on a roll. Right I thought, the wooden piece of timber I had salvaged yesterday from the ravages of the foaming beach at Gyles Quay (it is also a harbour) would in Rema’s world, do very nicely, as a shelf in the ‘alcove’ and this needed to be accompanied with some rope and hooks.

Have laid it out on table. Old rope from the shed looking forlornly at me. Just a matter of getting into the ‘mood’ to do some handiwork.

Or I could just fling it all to the one side and hope that a lick of fresh – wait for it – the dreaded word – magnolia - paint – will do the trick. Think we have some in the said shed.

All I have to figure out is where to put all the ‘stuff’ in the meantime. Which I think entitles me to a sit down, a bit of writing time, a coffee, and one of the daughter’s HALLOWEEN HORROR CAKES.

All in all, not a bad use of ME TIME, considering I have just spent the last five minutes trying to lift a pencil off the table – only to realise it was digital image, part of glossy PAGE 23 – HOW TO DIY.

Can almost feel the tension subsiding.

Going All Teenagery

It’s like welcoming home a returning French gap student into the house. Air kisses. “Morning Mumma dear,” instead of the big bear hugged – tree trunk encounters we usually had over the cornflakes. 

Then it’s the way everything I do – wear – or think, is just completely, tosh. And I’m made to understand this with glaring daggers, under hooded-eyed glances that stop me in mid-flow recounting hilarious fiascos such as what happened to Marian at the counter in …

Withering looks, tell me it’s just – a – really? Get real moment – cop myself on.

Before she leaves for school, the required one-hand-on-her hip stance is made, complete with jaunty air of one going on holiday. My counter-stance, is my two-hands-onto-my-arthritic-feel-like hips.

I am like, so last year, plus one hundred years ago. She asks me if I ever saw the Beatles play live – and I’m wondering if she is serious.

Later in the day, in lashings of rain – I drive past herself and the friend, on the walk home from school. Rolling down the window. “Girls, hey!” I shout. (No. 1 WRONG). “Do you want a lift round the corner?” Julio Iglesias blaring out from the car stereo. (No. 2 WRONG). Withering look while she holds tightly onto straps of her ruck-sack on shoulder. “Like no thanks,” which is Teenagerish speak for “DOH!” As I roll window back up, a seething foulness invades the car, and I spew it out when I get home to the husband and son.

Her first year in Secondary School and she’s having a blast. Cooking up a Mary Berryish storm of a social-after-school-tornado with the likes of Tennis Club (get-to-travel-the-world-or county), netball (get-to-travel-the-world, or up to Belfast), choir (get-to-travel-the-world, or ferry to Le Harve for Annual Choral Festival).

“It’s all ahead of you,” I keep saying and now it’s more like me saying to myself – “it’s all behind you.”

The girl on the other side of the post office counter clicks her fingers together. “It goes,” she says, “like that,” as I tentatively push our weekly savings amount for said daughter’s future (she would like it to be spent on luxurious Manhattan apartment) under the glass window.

“It’s all,” apparently, “money.”

Son is also taking to angst-like worry – frowning and gritting teeth after she passes, whispering – “she’s going all teenagery again,” as if it is the most dire warning that should be accompanied by a loud air-raid siren, but instead is followed by slamming of her bedroom door and subsequent blaring of Will Ferrell's Happy.

Consequently the son is also taking to Teenagerish behaviour – in mimicking form – such as the odd mini-tantrums when asked to do something and then moving across room to exit door-left, like he is leading male dying swan in a Bolshoi Ballet’s production of Swan Lake.

She’s now watching TV programmes like Don’t Tell The Bride providing full running commentary and a host of other cookery programmes, with squeals of delight. Snog Marry Avoid, and I can’t help wondering which group I’d be lumped into. The odd time she gazes over at me - giving me those eyes again, and I know, not to bother asking.

Luckily for the husband and son, they still have some street cred, while I have become Enemy No.1, removing i-Pads for days on end, non-dispensing canteen lunch money, and also holding the threat over her head of a possible cancelation of the annual pilgrimage to IKEA.

Otherwise, she’s a terrific, gentle, loving and courageous soul. And why not be confident? Give it some attitude? Sure it’s only the opposite to what some of us felt like leaving Secondary – peering out from the school sheds at the big wide world ahead, with the most exciting thing - remembering the combination lock on our bikes, followed by cycling on the pavement, into the path of oncoming pedestrians with not so much as an “excuse me.” (c) B. Woods