My mum shared this with me recently. My great-great grandfather received a letter from composer Ralph Vaughn-Williams as he used to sing in a choir which he ran!
This was pretty exciting to hear!
There's another story from my relatives regarding well-known musical personalities but I'm not sure whether to believe it is true or not until I can see the end credits of a film to see if it is true and gives evidence that would confirm this.
Ally wrote a great post about some apples recently which prompted me to think of my own apple memories. As this blog is a great nostalgic thing for me to look over, I thought I'd write about 2 special Apple memories for me.
The first apples- small red apples which grew on a couple of trees in my Grandad's garden in the orchard. I've written about it before here but I wish I had more photos of the paradise that was their vast garden.
When we used to visit them in Summer and Autumn, we always used to go home with a massive bag of these tiny red apples. My sister and I would eat one after the other in close succession, often about 5 or 6 on the way home, throwing the cores out of the window. They were so sweet and juicy- they were the equivalent for us of sweets (something we didn't get to eat a lot of). It was a glory of the Summer time for us- the long visits there, the idyllic days spent running through the garden with my very patient older sister. I think in retrospect of how patient she was, always playing with her 4 year younger sister. Luckily for her, I guess, I was also a reader, and also liked playing alone. But still.
The second apple memory for me is of my childhood home. The garden really was tiny and thin for our little Edwardian servants quarter but it was it was a good length for a Suburban garden- longer than my own current garden. When we moved there, it was beaten earth, killed by two alsation dogs. My Mum slowly built it into a wonderful space filled with many plants and trees. One of three apple trees there was a Reverend Wilks apple tree. This tiny tree used to produce a veritable bounty of the most wonderful HUGE apples. They were cooking apples in their early stages but then became eaters- they really were gargantuan and lasted for a while! My Mum tried to graft a cutting of it onto dwarf root stock when she moved but sadly it never succeeded. I often wonder about that tree. One Summer, when I was living there alone, a big haul of the apples were ripening. When I returned home from holiday , there were NO apples on the tree. I was puzzled and called my Mum to ask her if she'd been round to pick them? She said no. The house at the end of the garden had often asked about the apples and to this day, I remain convinced that someone climbed over the low and easy to navigate wall and pinched the lot! I'll never know!
Both apple varieties and their associations are pretty special to me. Do you have any special apple associations?
Sorry about the delay yesterday! I had a very traumatic day in terms of trying to do things that conspired against me. Luckily, all is well now!
Today's choice for Julie's advent Calendar challenge is Christmas Bauble.
When I was a little girl, my Mum used to send us upstairs to our bedroom when she was going to put the Christmas tree up and all the decorations. When we came down, it was all a wonderful surprise.
The thing I loved about our tree was all the different individual decorations, collected lovingly over the years. I always used to think it looked fantastic! There was a teddy with a Santa hat on and numerous other unique decorations. It was never really a tree of uniformity or baubles so that's what I tend to like when I think of my tastes in Christmas trees. CBC and I didn't have a Christmas tree last year or this year as we thought we were moving both times (this time yes!). We did have one twice or so at our previous rental home- our landlord had left his fake tree in our loft so we dragged that down twice and then CBC bought a real tree once.. It ended covered in a motley collection of different ornaments including the Christmas Hyena.
Our ornaments, since we have moved to this bungalow, have sat in a black canvas shoulder bag with a shoe box in it behind the electric arm-chair- we have one of those mobility ones for assisting a senior citizen in leaving their chair.
I went to have a root around in the bag and I pulled these out to share.
These are mock-Faberge egg decorations that I found in my Grandad's house when we were clearing it out. They were all in their wrappers still and I found them charming and saved them. He never used them, they must have either been ordered from some catalogue or other or been given as some sort of free-gift.
On the other side, you can see the patterns. They are pretty robust. They make me think of one of the Christmas presents Grandad gave me a few years before he died- it was a Faberge music box which played a theme from Stravinsky's firebird. It was a charming present and thus reminded me of these baubles.
When we have our first Christmas in our new home (next year), I will place them on the tree with a thank you to my Grandad for his decorations and his posthumous assistance in allowing us to buy our lovely house.
Tomorrow, the completion of the sale of my Grandad's house goes ahead. It's been a long while coming but now the day is here.
I felt compelled to go there to say goodbye to the place of my idyllic childhood. The place that filled me with so much happiness, joy, love and awe. The best house ever for hide and seek, the garden with our own 'secret passage', the lawns for playing on, the ponds and the reclining chairs on hot, sunny days, the piano to mess around on, the chiming clock, pine cones on the fire, the carpet for playing, mind the sharks on- stepping on the orange flowers and avoiding the murky green leaves.
As I have previously mentioned, it is the shell of its former glory and beauty but the sheer size of the garden and the variety of plant forms, despite being an overgrown jungle, still remains.
I went round the garden for hours- stopping to look closely at flowers and plants, insects, grasses, weeds. I saw the beauty in everything at that golden hour of the day, no matter how humble the species.
I hope whoever owns this house and this very large garden realises how privileged they are and makes something beautiful of it rather then building 10 houses over the garden in the bid to make money. It would be nice for someone to love and make beauty.
I remember a time when this was a golden paradise, manicured, cared for and tended.
Halcyon days when I was young, carefree and you were strong and to be looked up to.
Yard after yard of luscious green lawns, to dance, to swat a ball on, to race up and down.
And behind the tall trees on the edge of your natural kingdom, the secret passage that was formed by those kind trees which sisterly glee did share.
Oh those beautiful hydrangeas, reminiscent of bridesmaids, past,present and future.
Those ruby red Camelias who dropped onto the ground leaving a red carpet of gentility.
The apple trees a-plenty who held small red treats which would be devoured, 5, 10 at a time on a car journey back home, like sweets.
Memories abound.
The warm times, summer days, long and languorous.
And the grass-snake, beheaded,forlorn,who we found and displayed proudly.
Those affectionate honeybees who dashed here and there, not too busy to buzz a friendly hallo in our ears.
Afternoons spent in freedom.
The best games of Hide-and-seek. Half an acre of camouflage to deceive and conceal from a searching sibling.
Cups of tea and Ribena, "Warm, not hot!" and dinner eaten on round tin cat trays.
Brie cheese and pinecones collected for a wood burning fire.
The out of tune chime of a mantlepiece clock.
You are long gone and the glory days of this garden, a long distant but oh, so treasured memory.
This place so different, lonely somewhat without your tending hand.
Overgrown, a forlorn jungle?
No, vehmently no.
Beauty remains.
For your voice is in the rustle of the leaves.
Your hand is in those brilliant Camelias, heavenly and proud all over the garden that have fought age-bound neglect.
Your steadfastness is in the tall, proud secoia tree which towers above all other foliage in the garden.
Your love is in the many, many memories of past times.
I may not be able to see you, or even this place for much time longer.
You may be gone but in this place, you will remain, in my heart.
This place, my once-paradise, my land of dreams which you gave me, by your tender green hands.
Yes, I still I love this place. Though you are gone.
It's been just over a year since he died. I miss him greatly.
I confess that the September blues made my buy a few things I shouldn't have. Besides my clock skirt, some shoes from Irregular choice, some Flapper Doodle collar clips and a tan hat, I also ended up buying one or two dresses too. I shouldn't have, I know, but I did.
I was most excited by this tartan dress which I found in Primark and was really happy about as it is made of the softest brushed cotton and has three-quarter length sleeves which are great and unusual for me to find something I like in.
Wearing this for school on a Thursday when I teach year 1 PE was not the smartest move I've ever had. I had to prance around the playground demonstrating leaping,turning and moving in a variety of ways. And then I noticed the Head walking round with visitors....
I wasn't feeling too wonderful that day and I hadn't brought a coat (idiot) as it had been warm. I slowly froze in the music room during my non-contact time until I borrowed a crochet granny blanket from Nursery and a very nice polka dot trench coat from the stylish TA who bequeathed me my smart satchel.
I absolutely adore piling on the red accessories so loved adding the belt, necklace and lurid tights. Sorry you can't see just how red the tights are.
One of the many things I detest about winter/autumn is the dark. The light is appalling in my house so taking pictures is rotten and I'm never home before 7 so it's too dark for outside. I wanted to photograph the dress but you just saw I was having face issues.
I found a solution....
I was inspired by Patti's 'Guitar Hat'!
Excuse the tip that I have made of CBC's study. This is one of two mandolins I have inherited from my Grandad. When I was about 10, my grandparents decided to try and learn the mandolin so we went with them to Hobgoblin music in Crawley (to the shop owned by my friend Lucy's lovely friends, Sarah and Nicola. I'd love to meet them again. I don't know their surname, wish I did) and they chose two mandolins. Every time we went over to their home, I would take a mandolin down from the hooks on the wall and play it. The good thing about the mandolin is that it is the same strings as a violin- E, A, D, G but you use a plectrum. The German Romantic composer, Gustav Mahler who is an old favourite of mine wrote a part in his 7th symphony for Mandolin and guitar in one movement. At my first summer music camp, we performed Mahler 6 and I played viola but wished oh I wished, I had known and brought one of the mandolins. Someone else played that. I bided my time and the next time I played that symphony, I was prepared and pestered the conductor about the mandolin and managed to bag the job. I played 3rd flute which fortunately doesn't play in that movement so I was able to sit in the flute section and just pick up the mandolin for that movement. It was a great surprise to those around me when I first did it as they weren't expecting it!
I also call that 'The Star Trek symphony' as there is a moment in the 1st movement that sounds like the beginning of the Star Trek credits.
Listen for the Mandolin.
Listen to 11:50 and about 6 seconds in, listen for the trumpet play the first bit of Star Trek! Of course, Mahler came first!
We've been working at my Grandad's house over the last couple of weeks/month as it's a minor understatement to say there is a lot of work to do there. My Uncle, Aunt and Mum have been doing a lot of clearing and I've been over about 6 times now. My Grandad was something of an excessive in terms of buying and hoarding things- his house had all sorts of nooks and crannies in it to store things and my goodness, did he take advantage of that. However, amongst others, something really lovely thing I found was about 10 copies of a book called The Legend of the Hive by Maria Owsianka and illustrated by Anna-Maria Syzmariska (both Polish-descended)
I took a copy home to read and was so glad I did so. It is essentially a fictional account based on non-fiction about a honeybee. It is told from the 1st-person perspective of Deborah, a worker honeybee who is born in the summer. We learn, like Deborah as she goes along, about all the different jobs and roles a worker bee must take on, how they fly, communicate, eat and more. Deborah is a lovely narrator- she states things simply, without undue emotion, matter-of-fact and clear. I really like her and confess to shedding a tear at the end of the book which ends with the obvious. The story of course progresses in a linear way and we learn about how worker bees are 'put to work' or feel the natural inclination to work from when they are only about 5 days old (past being a grub)and how their role changes from nurse to field-worker, how they carry the nectar and pollen and eat both. It's a great way of understanding all that the bee does. It's humorous as well- I smiled at the bee-ish description of the drones all sitting upstairs providing a layer of heat - in my mind, I had this image of a large group of lazy men all chatting whilst the women work hard downstairs! I finally understand exactly how swarms work and learnt more about which plants and trees bees like and why. I really liked the idea of the bees passing on the 'Hive legend' rather like in our history- the practice of oral history- telling history to our ancestors in order that they may remember what came before. That's how bees who don't live all year around, know what to do and why to keep storing and making honey.
The illustrations are beautifully executed- gorgeous detail, vibrant colours but not cartoony and they really add to the book. There are also some smaller black and white ones dotted throughout, as well as the full-page coloured ones.
I would really recommend reading this if you are interested in what bees do but like me, aren't such fans of non-fiction. It's a fascinating tale and really made me think. This would be lovely for children to, learning about life-cycles and the suchlike. Very much recommended.
xx
Today, my Grandad made his last public appearance at his funeral. It was held at a new cemetery not too far from where I live and seemed a really beautiful, open, fresh, peaceful place with a lake where trees are planted with plaques for the deceased.
A real nice crowd turned up including over 30 fellow beekeepers, 4 teachers (including Head) from the school where he taught bee-keeping, friends and neighbours, past and present, family of course.
They had managed to find these photos by contacting an Essex-based magazine who had published these photos with an interview with Grandad some while ago (mind you, he was in the local paper and on BBC Radio Essex with Ken Crowther a few times in the past so there were other places that had taken photos) and they were projected from screens in the Crematorium and on the front of really lovely order of services, along with a picture of him as a young bespectacled lad of 30ish on the back with honeybees dotted here and there.
The service was not religious, as my Grandfather was not religious, but it had some nice elements to it. After the bringing in of his casket (which I found very humbling- it looked so small for such a tall man) and a welcome, we sang Morning has broken which has very fitting lyrics for a man who loved nature so much, which I accompanied on the keyboard. After this, my cousin came and read a poem which was lovely.
After this, I came up to play a piece which my Grandad had commissioned me to write some 16 years ago. He was SUCH a clever man and had a plan for me to write a 20minute long piece for full symphony orchestra and singer details of which he wrote to me in a 5-page long letter with intricate details and ideas for inspiration. I started the said piece at the time, writing the overture and various sequences and sections for it but never completing it, it being an huge task and one that was quite exciting but daunting and of course, life, other musical committments got in the way. Oh how I wished I had finished it for him. I spoke about it and then played the extracts from it on the keyboard.
My Mum, then my sister and then a fellow bee-keeper came up and gave talks about him. All three were touching, funny, and a real tribute to the amazing man he was. My Mum, talking about him, showed how intelligent he was, all the classes he enrolled in after retirement, including, Russian, violin-making, Welsh, microbiology, yoga and many more (I, who always has regarded him as one of the most active people I know was shocked at the list), talked about his time as a Civil Servant at the Employment office (from 1949 until retirement) and an amazing anecdote about how he met Fred Astaire through his work and suggested to him that he use an English ballet company for An American in Paris rather than 'importing' dancers from abroad, since it would be much easier. My sister's talk was of her memories of him and her first comment, that she never considered him to be an 'old person' struck me so much. That was so true- he wasn't ever old- he was so active, enthusiastic, amazing. Then the bee-keeper spoke. She had only known him for 9 years and it was him who got her into bee-keeping. She'd met him at a County show and her daughter had told him (he was representing his division of the Essex Beekeepers) she wanted to be a bee-keeper. He introduced her to someone who was selling some equipment, got her a swarm to look after and then continued to support her, teaching her everything about bee-keeping. She'd phoned him most days to ask advice, he'd often phone her to tell her something and her grandaughter (who always wanted to speak to him on the phone) actually thought he was a giant bee! Possibly due to the first time she saw him being in his netted faced suit. She really really seemed to care about him and it represented one of many conversations I had later.
At this point, this was when the curtains closed on his coffin and to accompany it, my sister and I played Rimsky-Korsakov's Flight of the Bumblebee. I had managed to hold it together all the way through the service but as I stood there waiting to start, it was hard to keep it together but that I had to do for this very very hard piece for him- he was my staunchest supporter as a musician. He had come to more performances of mine than anyone else, he who was a supportive, delighted critic. My sister, managed to play whilst her eyes and nose dripped all over the piano.
After waiting outside and being greeted by people who really really loved him, we headed to a pub near his house for some food and drinks. So many people spoke to me expressing their love for him. A whole gaggle of lady beekeepers between around 35-60 talked to me and all had told me they were his proteges, they all phoned him regularly to ask him advice and how to do things. Each one told me he was the kindest, most intelligent and most patient and helpful person they knew, always ready to offer advice, encourage, support and offer a great perspective. It was a lovely time to see my family, including my cousins who I have not seen for so long, see these friends and know how much he was and still is loved. I loved hearing tales and only wish I had talked to him more of his amazing life, and learnt to be what he was myself.
Don't be sad that I have died Be glad that I lived.
I haven't said all I want to about him, this is just a summary of the day only. His life has so much to celebrate and talk about but I love the above: A fitting tribute to this giant bee as he makes his final flight.
Firstly, thank you for ALL your love, support, prayers, care and concern you showed to me over my Grandad over the last 3 weeks or so, and before that. I am sorry I am only telling you now, but I didn't want to publish my post before now.
Unfortunately, he passed away on Monday evening at about 6.45-7pm (or that's when the nurses found out, I am not sure exactly.). He had been off the drip and hadn't eaten/drunk anything since Wednesday night last week/Thursday morning as he had refused treatment and just seemed to want to do it his way. That's him- never one to show emotion, to ask for help, proud and fiercely independent.
I was away for a week in Northumberland and Oxford, so I hadn't seen him for a week, but I knew that he would not die before I got to see him. You may not believe what I do, but I knew that God would give me that opportunity to see him.
I went after 3pm on Monday and CBC drove me. I asked him to drop me off at the door and he went to go and find free parking in a nearby road. I wanted that time with him. He had been moved to him own room. When I saw him, I was shocked and startled as he had deteriorated so much in the week I hadn't seen him. There seemed to be not much of him left, his eyes were barely open, looking to the side. He looked like a frail old man, his mouth wide open and dry and dreadfully ill, he couldn't speak but I immediately stroked his hair throughout and talked to him about my week in Northumberland. I talked to him of God and that He was there for him if he only wanted to see him, speak to him, ask for him, I sang him my song I had completed writing that week- Love so amazing I told him I loved him lots, kissed his forehead, demonstrated some lindy-hop for him that I'd learnt 2 weeks ago. He opened his eyes wide as I talked alone to him and groaned once as I spoke. I noticed his radio was on Radio 1, he loved classical music so I changed it to Radio 3 for him and we listened to Baroque Music. I talked more to him. At which point, I went quickly outside to ask the nurse what the situation was. They said they were keeping him comfortable now, no other treatment apart from moistening his mouth every 2 hours, applying emolient to his skin, changing his lying position as he could not do it himself. When I came back, his eyes had closed a bit, not fully shut but staring, unseeing from the bottom, and he was snoring. CBC arrived at that point to see snoring Grandad. We could hear the rattle from his chest inbetween the snores. I continued to talk to him, stroke his hair, we asked the nurse to moisten his mouth and they moved his position towards the end of our visit. It was around 6pm and it seemed that he would not wake up and we felt it would be better to leave him to rest peacefully, it felt right. As I kissed his head, stroked his head, said I loved him and told him to remember what I had said earlier to him, he opened his eyes wider, which CBC saw: he was seeing us off. As we were going to go, I asked CBC to go and get the car and pick me up, I needed a little more time with him. Alone once more, I told him I loved him again, reminded him that that God loved him, he made one more gasping groan, I wasn't really sure which. I kissed his forehead a few more times as my tears fell on his forehead and said goodbye repeatedly, reluctant to leave. It was 6.15pm.
Despite the trauma of how he looked and the sadness, I was proud, glad and honoured to spend that time with him, even if I got little response. We know not what the heart feels or the seemingly unconscious brain knows and registers and if he somehow could sense I was with him and knew I loved him, then any distressed I might feel was well worth it. I have a lifetime to get over it whereas he has little time. He knew I was there from opening his eyes and those 2 groans. He died some 45 minutes later or less. I was the last one to see him alive. I am understandably upset but I am so glad that I had that time with him, so glad I could stroke his head and tell him I loved him. I loved him, I love him, I will always love him and I pray for forgiveness for all I left undone and all I failed to do. God bless his soul. xxx
