Post 190: Bed rest with bad smells.
A bright red Cardinal on a Christmas movie made me cry today.
It’s a mostly a bright red, smallish bird (smaller than a blackbird, more like a bullfinch) that my Darling and I saw in the back garden on Long Island when we stayed with Kev. Their small back garden was a haven for birds, and even in January the Cardinal made its presence known with its vivid colour against an otherwise bland winter background.
But in time, like where we live, the large black birds, Magpies and Gulls, will take over, and the small garden and song birds will be gone.
When I was growing up, our Nan — Big Nan, not Little Nan — was either going to or from Bingo, or playing cards and drinking tea. When she was with us kids, she would teach us simple card games, or more adult ones as we progressed in ability. Rummy was one of our favourites, though I can’t remember the names of the others now — but we were happy playing with her, and the house was quiet and peaceful.
The other activity she loved us doing was drawing and art, on any scraps of paper we could find with our pencils and dried out faded felt pens.
It’s funny, now I think back to those easy days of younger childhood — when I was seven to ten — because I loved sketching, but I can’t ever remember her actually drawing a thing. It’s odd to imagine she never helped us, only encouraged us verbally, but that’s what she did. She would praise me and my Big Sis (Little Bro was too young — five years younger than me) to the heavens for anything we drew, and made a point of saying it was a great thing to be able to do — to draw — and we should keep it up, always.
Long after she passed, I was still sketching when I could. I don’t — and haven’t for years. In fact, I stopped soon after we bought our first home.
My Darling and I started off with nothing but a few quid and a love that could conquer all.
To get our first home was essential, and the speed at which we did things back then was partly that all-conquering love and, in this particular case, the property market — where prices were going up a thousand quid a month. The year was 1987 and our love only four months old when we started to think about living in our own place, by late October we were in.
I was 21 and had a part mortgage with Dad, on the home we were living in looking after little Bro, after Mums divorce from Dad (which I don’t like to talk about, because I never got fully paid out — long, horrible story, end of). The fact that I was broke was the mortgage, but the asset was worth something, and all Dad could do to pay me out was all I could accept, so I took a token payout and thought I’d get the rest in time…
That token amount was enough to get my Darling and me on the lowest of the low rungs of the then red-hot property ladder. By the time we were in the one-bedroom flat (basically two rooms and a bathroom in between), the property was worth way more than we’d paid — so we were happy. Our first home.
We’d begged, borrowed, or been given furniture and bits we needed, but I remember it didn’t take long to get everything in so we couldn’t have had much — on the weekend two weeks after the great storm of ’87 that swept through the south like a hurricane (which it very nearly was).
Our love fed us and made everything alright even though we had barely anything. We didn’t need anything — we just needed each other. Same as now.
The first morning after moving in was the best feeling ever. We had a bed but no curtains or nets, so our day started with first light — but looking out that bedroom window was when it dawned on us (pun intended) that we had our own place. We were so happy we could burst.
We didn’t know it then, but we were to stay there for 12 long years and have both our lovely boys up until our eldest was five. How we managed is another chapter, but we honestly loved our time in that upstairs flat — one of four flats in our building, surrounded by twenty others in two neat rows. We learned to rely on several neighbours, some of whom are still close friends — or did they rely on us?
Ah, those days — sometimes fun, sometimes dark.
There were those grim financial times in hyper-inflated Britain when mortgage rates skyrocketed and left everyone penniless and frustrated — us included, and us and many others in negative equity. Oh my Lordy, that was a pain we could have done without.
But we survived.
So back to my earlier mention of drawing — and why I stopped suddenly, just after we bought our flat and settled in.
As I said, we had some friends we got to know there — neighbours at first, then good friends. The couple beneath our flat, who’d moved in a few months before us, were the ones we knew best.
It was only three years ago that Kev died (another Kev) — my drinking buddy and constant companion over the years — and the hole he left is still gaping with sorrow.
Enough about him.
His then girlfriend and eventual wife, C, was always a party girl — as was my Darling — so they hit it off well, and we all palled around constantly. In fact, it was sometimes hard to get rid of them (I hope she doesn’t read this — ha-ha).
To explain: my Darling was brought up in a big family — fourteen of them — where there was always food for the kids and any family that might drop by. Which meant my Darling was unable (and, as I learned, so was I) to turn away a guest if we were eating. She’d always plate up more, sit them down, and share what we had. Many, many times this would happen, and we’d act as if it were a planned dinner — enjoying that old-fashioned sharing of food.
But all I’ll say about the two buggers below us is that they were very good at timing their visits to coincide with mealtimes!
Anyway — back to those early days of learning who your neighbours were and what they did. Kev had a company car and was a plumbing salesman (which he was all his life), and C was an artist — with a huge talent as an artist and an artist brother and dad too.
OMG. That finished my thoughts of sketching forever. Honestly, it was like a light going out inside me when I saw what was hanging on the walls of their flat.
I had other things to do anyway. Lots of things.
To this day, C is still taking commissions and painting like the professional she is, and I’m proud to say I know her. We have both kids, all our pets, and many of her paintings on our walls — truly special pieces. But there’s only one of mine: the last thing I ever sat down and drew.
A classic portrait of the Madonna (no, not that Madonna — it was from a photo of a statue in a book), which I remember sketching vividly as the pencil lines came alive. I even signed it, I was so proud. I knew Big Nan would have liked it too, if she was alive to see it.
(Yes, the sketch is today’s photo.)
So, the ramble’s nearly done — and I must return to the beautiful Cardinal.
Who would have thought that a little red bird would cause me to cry?
I’m well aware of Kev not being around now, but I still feel those acute moments of sadness from obscure angles of ordinary things — all part of the protracted grieving process I guess.
———
On another topic.
The first of three appointments is made — and it doesn’t affect our proposed holiday next Wednesday.
Monday I have a bone scan. So the long-awaited break is still on.
And lastly, and most embarrassingly — my gurgling torso of late has now become a flatulent disaster, especially as I’m stuck in bed with the window closed due to my sensitivities (I don’t like being cold).
My Darling opens the door holding her nose and laughingly asks how I am.
Oh dear — I’m certainly not good company at the moment, due to my dodgy tummy.
Our first guests arrive tomorrow — our eldest and his wife are heading our way — and I’m hoping for a bit of a break in my intestinal activity.
Otherwise, a KEEP OUT! sign will be posted on my bedroom door.
Laters.
