Despite the turmoil of the last year our members have had some remarkable successes and there are more projects in the pipeline.
The Covid restrictions robbed Wendy of the book launch activities lined up to promote her excellent autobiography The Railway Carriage Child.
Tessa has had poetry published in The Poet magazine as has Cathy. Val Fish has had an article published in the Daily Mail also some of her limericks for which she has an outstanding talent often appear on Esther Chilton’s Blog and in the Daily Mail.
Stephen’s work is now receiving the recognition it deserves, some of his short stories are now appearing in collections both on line and in print. These are Of Silver Bells and Chilling Tales and What Lies Beyond.
Cathy is publishing two more of her books Pond People and The Godmother, they will be available early in December. These join Witch Way and The Year Before Christmas
Phil has published his first novel Killing Time in Cambridge, fresh deliveries will be available early in December.
Also available are the Wordsmiths first two excellent collections; Where the Wild Winds Blow and A Following Wind.
Books published by the Whittlesey Wordsmiths are available locally for collection or delivery at prices often cheaper than Amazon.
This post is by Val Chapman a reminiscance of her childhood Christmas.
It was never going to be the same again. My father had died suddenly just 3 months ago and although the festive season was upon us, I was feeling somewhat less than cheery.
It made matters worse that it was his birthday on Christmas Eve, and so it seemed that I had been dealt a double blow. The shops seemed to be full of things that dad would have loved to have received. Usually it was a struggle to find suitable gifts for my dad, after all, what do you get the man who has everything? Knowing my dad would appreciate the joke, one year I found the answer to that question and gave him a bottle of antibiotics!
Of course it wasn’t just me.
My mum was understandably devastated and although she put on a brave face, she had little to no interest in anything.
My children, her grandchildren, were a godsend to us both on those dark days, and made us both realise that life does indeed go on.
I am now at the same age my mother was when she was widowed, and I took some ‘me time’ for a little reminiscing.
“It’s ok, I’ve got my gloves. Let’s get going.”
I looked up at my dad and took his hand.
“See you later mam”
We both gave her a kiss and she shushed us out of the house before turning back to busy herself with the Christmas dinner preparation.
This was our usual routine on Christmas morning. My mum sending us off to my Nana’s house, while she peeled potatoes, chopped carrots, made Yorkshire puddings and did everything that made for a perfect Christmas dinner.
I found out years later that mum had always regretted that decision, declaring that “children should not be taken away from their toys at Christmas”. One reason why she never let me bring my children to visit at Christmas. Oh it would have been very different if we had lived close to one another, and could have just popped round for a couple of hours, but as it was it was a 6-7 hour round trip, it meant at least one night’s stay.
A trip we did every 2-3 months, except at Christmas. The very time when families are supposed to be together. So why didn’t they come to us?
Well, mum once again declared that ” you would all have a much better time without us getting in the way”.
I can’t deny it hurt a little at the time, but she was a bit of a ‘home-bird’ and hated travelling. Nor can I deny that actually, she did have a point!
So, there we were, dad and I walking the two miles or so to my grandparents house. Dad didn’t drive, probably couldn’t have afforded a car even if he did, and of course, there were no busses on Christmas day.
I never minded, it always seemed to be snowing, but that is probably just my wishful thinking, and I was spending time with my dad.
I was definitely a ‘daddy’s girl’, and he in turn adored me.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my mum too. She was amazing, wonderful and a credit to her firm but fair miners daughter upbringing.
We walked down the path which runs alongside the semi-detached houses, and borders the playing field. Looking across this field we could see the sea, grey and threatening as it usually was at this time of year..
Before long we were at the main road. There were a few people about, often children who had just had a new bike from Santa, determined to ride despite the snow.
We walked beside the road for about a mile until we reached the railway crossing.
It was a place my father knew well. For all of his working life he had been at the docks and spent part of that time riding on the wagons which transported coal from one of the local pits to the docks where it was loaded onto ships to end up who knew where.
Crossing over the line, it was a fairly easy walk to my Nana’s house, past the Londonderry Arms where they were probably getting ready for another busy Christmas, and then turning right, with our destination straight ahead, just before the local working men’s club. A place where later my grandad, at the age of 97, and the oldest member, would be the guest of honour at its re-opening.
There were already some cousins there and we children delighted each other with stories of what Santa had left for us, and handing out presents for my Nana and grandad.
We didn’t seem to have been there for very long before we had to leave for home, with a promise that I would be good for my mum. We always took home a box of liquorice all-sorts, a gift to my dad from his in-laws.
Dad was the only son-in-law who was handed a present at Christmas. It was given by way of a “thank you” for the little jobs he did for them, fixing the toaster, putting up shelves, plumbing in a washing machine when the old twin tub gave up the ghost, that sort of thing.
As the ‘favoured’ son-in-law, my dad was also given the job of ‘first foot’ on New year’s Eve, being ushered out of the house before midnight and with a lump of coal for luck in his hand ready to re-enter once the church bells had struck. So whilst the rest of us were laughing and celebrating in the warmth, poor dad was outside, freezing cold and on his own.
Dad checked that I had fastened my coat up properly and we said our goodbyes and set off for home.
The terraced houses lining our route, normally blackened thanks to the coal dust which settled on the walls, took on a beautiful festive look with glittery snow settling on the tops of garden gates and privet hedges.
Getting back to the warmth of home and the welcoming smell of Christmas, the celebrations could start properly for our little family. Playing, eating, watching television. More or less just as I do today.
I often wonder what my Nana would think if she could see the piles of presents my grandchildren woke up to on Christmas morning. Would she be proud that her family were doing so well that they could afford all of these gifts, or horrified at the expense and ‘show’? I have no way of knowing obviously, but I suspect it would be the latter.
So yes, in a way, Christmas isn’t the same. But in many ways, thanks to children and grandchildren, it hasn’t changed very much, and I still love it, almost as much