All Our Yesterdays

I have just returned from spending a few days with my brother, William, and sister, Sheila, in Manchester. We visited the area where we were brought up as children in Old Trafford. The first house we lived in has gone, along with the street, Clifton Street. It used to stretch from Brook’s Bar to Stretford Road, now it is a warren of small houses there is a remaining bit of Clifton Street, it’s only inhabitant a school for Muslim children. Joan Pope’s house, on the corner of Brook’s Bar was still there, now converted into flats, opposite Joan’s house used to be a scrap yard owned by one of the Manchester United footballers.
Alexander Road, where used to go shopping with my mother, had also been wiped out and was now dotted with small houses. Norton Street, the second house that we had lived in, had hardly changed. The TA (Territorial Army) building opposite was now a sorting office for the post. The old shop was closed but we could still recall where Josephine Brown lived and Pauline Hines, whose sister loved to listen to Dickie Valentine. On to Seymour Park School where our early learning years began and that looked much the same except the Secondary School had disappeared. William’s school had been razed on Stretford Road, a new glass and cement school put back in it’s place. But my old grammar school was still there and what a priviledged education I had in this smart part of town near Lime Road.
The next day we went to North Wales where my parents decided to decamp when I was in the last year of grammar school, William was fourteen and settled in a boy’s school and Sheila had just started her first job. The house in Alltami looked the same except the front garden had been turned into a parking lot and the farm next door where William and I had earned our pocket money bottling milk was now padlocked with a snarling Alsation dog yanking on his chain as we approached. We fled Wales leaving our unhappy memories behind us and chose to concentrate on what we would be doing in the next few days. It is always tempting to wonder ‘what if’ but the truth of the matter lies in ‘what now’?

9/11

It is my birthday on 9/11 and on Sunday my daughter arrived with her family. Just because we were on the receiving end of the latest American hurricane it did not deter us from taking to the seas. I faced the oncoming waves, allowing them to crash over my back or surging through them sideways on, whilst eleven year old Toby dived through the waves, his black wetsuit shining as he mercifully emerged once again. Brandishing coloured body boards we waited for the perfect roll before launching forth to the shore on a roller coaster ride.
We battled with the relentless waves until it was time to enjoy a hot cup of coffee and then make our way back up to the house. Homework was tackled and inevitably 9/11 featured. I had reservations about rekindling the horrors of that day ten years ago but when I sat reading some of the personal stories I realise that for some it will never go away. My grandson was only five years old when this disaster happened and now he was being asked to research the events and look at modern day terrorism.
We put away the books and sat down together to enjoy good company and good food. We laughed and joked about our everyday lives and when they had all gone home to get ready for another week I was grateful for my family, the sea and the effort they all put into making mine, a happy birthday.

Last week

Last week was glorious, I went horse riding with my daughter and two grandchildren. It must be four years since I last rode out and on that occassion I was with Connie, nine years old, astride her feisty New Forest pony, Bramble, I was on huge comfortable Ceasar and we were trotting around a large field when we broke into a canter, before long Connie was galloping alongside Ceasar’s comfortable strides, ‘Isn’t this fun Granny, we’re galloping.’ ‘I don’t think we’re supposed to,’ I replied as I listened to my daughter shouting, ‘Keep going to the left.’ We were heading straight for a stone wall!
Last week as we rode across the common in the morning sunshine, Becky in front on her beautiful dark bay, Toby, eleven years old, was behind prancing about on his little grey pony. I followed on Poppet, who was as good as her name, and bringing up the rear was six year old, Spencer. Spencer ambled along behind us in a world of his own shooting into the woods with two fingers at imagined enemy. It was a perfect day, the hedgerows were laden with blackberries, I promised myself that I would go out and pick them later.
Another week has come to pass and the wind is blowing up a frenzy. The lanes are thick with leaves and clouds swirl dull and grey. It’s bark is worse than it’s bite. Huddled up inside I was loathe to go outside but in fact the air is still warm and the onset of autumn has only just begun. Gather ye fruits whilst ye may, or there won’t be any left!