Forgetting

 

Forgetting

Old age plays several nasty pranks,

Purloining strength and youth,

Seizing sight and sound and taste,

And modifying truth;

But worst of all the memory flees -

The day before is lost.

Though sixty years ago is clear,

Current events are tossed

Like rubbish in a refuse truck;

Confusion reigns supreme.

‘I never did, I don’t know how,

Don’t make me cry, I’ll scream.’

 

Forgetting is letting

The memories go,

Sensing identity

Fading, and so,

Child once more,

Your needs are

Met each day,

Every way,

Until

The end

Of

Time.

 

A walk in the woods

Lost hats, toys, gloves, dog leads and so forth are left on highly visible posts.

The notice is a reminder that fire can spread very rapidly. With summer school holidays beginning in the next couple of days, the danger of uncontrolled fire increases as inexperienced teenagers set fires to cook sausages and boil water in warm evenings. They extinguish the flames and think that is sufficient, but the ground beneath is hot and can reignite if it has not been thoroughly soaked.

A few years ago we came across a smouldering fire and had to call the fire brigade. There was no way for the fire engine to get into the woods so they had to bring a stirrup pump to douse it. 

Decades of fallen leaves make a thick mulch, in which fire can smoulder and spread.

It's usually refreshing to be among the trees in the woods, but it's been very dry here and the air smelt odd. The closest I could identify it as was unwashed socks! 

It's just started raining and already the air smells fresher. Unfortunately, we need it to rain steadily for hours, and that doesn't seem to be happening.

Fallen sweet chestnut regenerating

Shell Shock

 

Shell Shock

 Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Clare loved shells and had collected them all her life. They were displayed informally in baskets and bowls throughout her house and garden, and were beautiful reminders of happy days at the beach and fabulous holidays in exotic locations.

Her favourite shells had pride of place in her bedroom, delicate pastel greens and pinks, echoing the colours of her soft furnishings. Her room was comfortable, relaxing, tastefully decorated. Gerry was abroad so often on business that she felt the room belonged more to her than to them.

When he was at home, he worked excessively long hours and frequently stayed in the guest bedroom or even at his club so that she shouldn’t be disturbed. He was very considerate.

Today, he had left a cryptic message on her phone – ‘A word in your shell-like.’ He had always said her ears were like delicate shells. She smiled. She called to ask him what he meant, and he replied that perhaps she should consult her shells.

She was intrigued. She had dabbled in Tarot and astrology but had never considered reading shells. Was there even such a practice? Was he teasing her? Maybe he had hidden a precious trinket in one of her displays. He made sweet little gestures like that. She sighed, wondering, as she so often did, why she took him for granted. He tried hard to please her, but she missed the excitement and energy of their early days together.

She wandered about the house, trickling shells through her fingers, but could see nothing unusual.

Finally, in her bedroom, she studied what she regarded as her special collection, the shells she had found in the first years of her marriage, some even from their honeymoon. She touched each one lightly, then noticed a stranger, one that didn’t belong. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was just a small conch, a most attractive one, to be sure, but nothing remarkable. Why had he given it to her?

As she examined it more closely, she saw the minute spy camera tucked inside and her stomach turned over at the memory of what it would have recorded. Trembling, she replaced it among the others. What she would not give now to be able to turn back the clock and become again the loving, faithful wife she once had been. Too late!

He filed for divorce, of course, and naturally she did not contest it.

Outside of a dog . . .

 

Outside of a dog . . .

                              . . . a book is man’s best friend.

Our eldest grandson and his little family visited us on Sunday, unexpectedly. It was delightful to see them all. 

Callum's elder daughter, Melia, is almost two and a half years old, and a very competent little girl. In the morning before they set off from home, she announced that she wasn’t going to wear nappies any longer. Obviously, she judged that the time was right, though it wasn’t the most opportune time to relinquish them, but she didn’t go to the loo very many times while she was with us.

Her baby sister, Hailey, is four months old and she was happy to gaze around at her surroundings, and coo.

Melia is very used to dogs and our dogs were happy to have visitors, particularly those at nose level with sticky fingers. They had to be segregated periodically when food was being consumed.

Books and toys, drawing pads and colouring pencils were brought out to entertain. 

Gilbert, being a Literary Labrador showed an interest, using the books as a pillow after our visitors departed.

                             Our cats, too, have shown Literary Leanings.

      

                                                  The late Winston Ocicat enjoyed blogging.

                                                 He also enjoyed reading his Kindle in bed.

                                           Pats the Abyssinian enjoyed books from kittenhood.

                                                 Herschel Ocicat guards the bookshelves.

          Jellicoe Ocicat is studying ornithology amongst other subjects.

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend.

Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.

Groucho Marx

 

Kraftwerk

 

Kraftwerk

I have to thank Lyssa Medana for bringing this clip to my attention. Kraftwerk is not a group one would associate with something as frivolous as the Hokey Cokey and yet, here they are, performing with Bill Bailey. 

Incidentally, Bill Bailey is an honorary member of  the Society of Crematorium Organists.

The Hokey Cokey

 

 The Hokey Cokey

Continuing the dancing theme, we come to the Hokey Cokey. According to where you live in the world, it is called the Hokey Pokey (Australia, USA), the boogie woogie (Denmark), Rucki-Zucki (Germany) and in Mexico, it is known as the Hockey Pockey.

I don’t know if anyone ever sings and plays it now. It used to be a staple at children’s school parties, but today’s youngsters are far too sophisticated for such nonsense. It’s believed to have folk dance origins from 1826, according to Wikipedia. I was astonished to discover that it had become a hit in the record charts, not once, but twice in the 1980s. That’s forty years after it first became popular with the public.

You put your left foot in,
Your left foot out,
In, out, in, out,
Shake it all about.
You do the hokey cokey and you turn around,
That’s what it’s all about.
Oh, hokey cokey cokey,
Oh, hokey cokey cokey,
Oh, hokey cokey cokey,
Knees bend, arms stretch,
Rah, rah, rah!

The Washington Post Style Invitational, or simply Invite, now defunct as a column since 2022, was an established weekly humour competition. It received the following, winning entry for something written in the style of Shakespeare. It’s not easy to sing, but do try!

 

O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe,
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl,
To spin! A wilde release from heaven’s yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl,
The Hoke, the poke – banish now thy doubt,
Verily, I say, ‘tis what it’s all about.

The Style Invitational or SI was renamed ‘The Invitational’ and found a new home on Substack. It can be found at The Gene Pool, GeneWeingarten.substack.com.

There is also a Facebook group, called Style Invitational Devotees. Anyone joining has their name anagrammed by members.

This YouTube video shows the Hokey Cokey being danced by some young children. All human character is there – the bold, the shy, the leader, the follower, the one who holds back, the one who’d rather follow his own path . .

 A short story

  

                                     Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

‘Shall we dance?’ he asked and together they fell into step, dipping, stretching, and gliding across the burnished boards. The music engulfed them as they pirouetted and twirled, she under his arm, and then he under hers. They saw no-one else and felt nothing other than the rhythm and the blood pounding in their veins.

He drew her closer, his arms encircling her, and her heart beat faster as their bodies touched, his chest against hers, his thighs pressed to hers, one hand on the small of her back, guiding her, just so, just so. She wanted to dance forever, for the moment never to end.

She gazed into his eyes, saw her passion reflected there. Her lips parted, he bent his head to hers, and the music swelled as it reached a climax.

The little girl shut the lid of the music box and went to have her tea.