Tag: life

Dads poetry

~ ewhyard ~ Leave a comment

My Dad was born in 1938. He moved around in his first couple of years to avoid the risk of serious bombing. He was born in a Garrison town. He ended up not far from there, in a place called Kelevedon in Essex, where he spent many evenings sheltering from bombs anyway. He remembered the moment when it was suddenly not exciting anymore. There was a reality behind it. He remembers the V1s and the V2s. The anti- aircraft guns on the streets. The tractors hauling tanks. He remembers the rationing and the worry. He has carried that. The worry. He also carried the desire to create something and over the years’ he has written many novels, and reams of poetry. None of it published. A lot of it carries the weight of those worries and those that came after.

But other poems make me giggle. You can hear a mans voice in his written words. I can hear Dads.

Not all politically correct probably, (“Porky porky porky pie, makes you fat and then you die…”) but we used to laugh as kids and recite them anyway (that one, when we were standing in the supermarket).

Another one which we loved and which even smallest can recite is written below.

I would like to introduce Mr. Richard Whyard, 87, A wonderful poet and writer. And Dad.

POGO DANCING CAUSES SPINAL INJURY (Newspaper report)

Penguin on a pogo stick! Penguin on a pogo stick!

-it seems a most unlikely trick.

B O I N G , B O I N G , B O I N G,

It bounces along , singing the penguin pogo song:

“I am the bird of Antartic Clime

pogo dancing all the time;

Over the ice floes , mile on mile,

I ‘boing’along with lots of style;

on an on, through storm and blizzard,

Oh, pogo dancing is so wizard!

Sod that stuff about the spine-

It may hurt yours, but never mine!”

He meets a vet, who says “Look here,

You’ll harm your spine, that’s what I fear.

Penguin upon a pogo stick?

What a crazy trick! – one single slip,

And you’ll be a quite a lot less frisky

and probably all slipped-disc-y.”

But through the hail, and storm, and thunder,

It bounces on and across tundra.

Then , bounding through this dismal space

It spies a little eating place:

Now though unmoved by weather grim,

Penguins are quite frankly, pretty dim;

In fact , they really have no clue,

and seeing the notice Penguin Stew,

“How nice, how very nice,” thinks he,

“A dish prepared for little me!”

So , boing! he bounces through the door….

And, Wham! he’s laid out on the floor,

Then slammed into a damn’ great pot

And roasted: Penguin, stick, the lot!

Isn’t it Iconic? A little too iconic……………

~ ewhyard ~ Leave a comment

..

In the Suburbs, the third studio album by Arcade Fire, turned 15 last week.

And the novel A Little Life written by Hanya Yanagihara was celebrated in last Sundays edition of The Observer, as it approaches its tenth year of publication.

Other upcoming, and apparently noteworthy dates, include the 30th anniversary of Garbage by Garbage on August 15th and the 70th birthday of the Disney film, Lady and the Tramp.

And so, the list goes on; on the radio we are treated to celebrations of decade specific coverage or shows dedicated to the music played as we celebrated the release of iconic albums.  On Grimmy’s breakfast show last week Rhianna was celebrating the television show Jonathon Creek which was quickly followed by a commentary on other 90s shows which have recently been added to iPlayer. (I am a sucker for these , the pace , the gags the SCENERY. What is it about the camera angles of 90s TV that somehow take you back. Perhaps it’s the ultra -grainy images which hark of something familiar and comfortable. In reality that wasn’t the case, but when I look back at it now it was bloody marvellous).

I digress.

As for me well I have lived here for six weeks this weekend. That’s my anniversary.

And now almost 30 minutes since this post idea emerged, I am struck by how they are just everywhere. These celebrations of what was in the present. These deluxe editions of CD’s or boxsets or book re-releases.

People who 50 years ago would have been popular artists are now Icons. Shows are placed on pedestal as something to be revered. Books are literary masterpieces.

 Don’t misunderstand my exasperation as lack of appreciation – I do regard the significance of much of this work. I sometimes agree with the critics. But. Currently it just feels as if , everything is celebrated or labelled as Iconic and like Mark Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie, the increasing use of the word has led me to wonder whether everything can be iconic . Does it not start to dilute what should be a commendation if we apply it to everyone of a certain era. I guess I am thinking specifically of the Brit Pop era.

And as I turn on the radio I hear an advert for a podcast dedicated to just that – celebrating Iconic Artists. I want to scream at the radio

Just celebrate them. Don’t label them.

Besides that honestly it just makes me feel old

Like eldest does.

As he approached his 25th birthday. Now THAT’S an anniversary.

With his excellent musical taste, his kind nature and his resilience (and his various collections of merchandise), that’s something to celebrate.

As I finish this he buzzes the door and I let him up. He’s grasping his bag containing a copy of a Talking Heads album.

See this Mum , see this he holds it up this is …….

I cut him off – just  don’t say it ,

please.

And then there were two.

~ ewhyard ~ Leave a comment

I have collected so much stuff in the 16 years I have been living here that when I said last week that I have made about a hundred trips to the dump, although I was exaggerating, it can’t be far off.

The guys there say hello to me now when I drive in. one of them even asked how the move was going today.

As I said to him, it’s OK. The rooms have all been sorted out – unwanted furniture has been collected or is in the process of being auctioned. (That makes me sound very grand doesn’t it- auctioned. Truthfully there are two bits which might be depending on the auctioneer’s appraisal).

The removal van booking has turned out to be trickier than first anticipated. Story of your life Mum, eldest said. Yes love. And thanks btw. He laughed.

And then there is butterfly woman (another story).

Otherwise, the week has been dominated by the one thing I cannot do any kind of literary justice to – and I have tried umpteen times these past few days.

Middlest has left home.

How can I describe this- you could call it a life event- but it is more than that. Watching her grow, helping her develop, laughing with her, playing together, singing dancing- lots of all of it. Crying and very little arguing.

The week went by as most weeks have done, and I didn’t plan anything as I kept reminding myself, she is just moving across town E she is not moving to the moon. You will still see her most days. Which is true but it didn’t stop the very real sense of loss I was experiencing mounting .The tears arriving at mostly private moments.  Apart from when I stood at the till in Tesco’s express and wept , bystanders perhaps wondering why the lady with the milk and fruit was crying, at the request for £4.35 for her four items. I scuttled out , items piled up in my arms unable to wipe my face, just wanting to get to the house that is slowly emptying itself of objects and people.

The next two days we spent together as we usually would except, we really ramped up the kitchen dancing – very good, including the Stone Roses, Alpha beat,  Taylor Swift and OMD. Moderated by smallest, I won the final dance off. We sang louder than ever to whatever came on or didn’t come on but came into our heads and drank an extraordinary amount of Yorkshire tea while telling stories about our days.

Oh and we watched Ghosts – of course.

We also cried to each other and said our respective goodbyes – firstly when we stood in the kitchen making tea and chatting about Brian Wilson. We had listened to Lauren Laverne in conversation on BBC Radio 6 music, with another presenter, which was followed by six of the best Brian Wilson songs. One of which was god only knows.

And we busied ourselves, I was sorting something in the fridge and she was squeezing the life out of the tea bags , our backs to each other and I thought god I’m going to cry and as I did I turned to see her already crying, and we just cuddled.

I said thank you then, for allowing me to be her mum and she said “good Mumming”.

Because that’s how I see it- your children either allow you to parent them or they can if they choose turn the other way.

Then, yesterday I said cheerio to her in her new home. We hugged and she said Thank-you, thank you , thank you and I said it had been a pleasure. Because it has been.

And tonight I stood in her room and thought bloody hell.

21 years.

The Week

~ ewhyard ~ Leave a comment

It’s happened. We have made the decision to leave the house we have called home for the past 16 years.

In the end , a decision that was toyed with for about 18 months, happened quickly, and within 24 hours of speaking to the landlord I told him i didnt want to buy it and i would be leaving as soon as I had found somewhere else to live.

So this week the estate agent arrived to take pictures of the house.
He was lovely; friendly, relaxed, and understanding regarding the mess the house is in; pre moving boxes and sorting draped around every room. His acceptance reflected in his frequent use of phrases such as- it is what it is, thats life innit, just do it , yeh just go with it, dooont worry about it.
By the time he had photographed the living room and upstairs – so four rooms, he had also covered his opinions on my landlord, his wife, his chldren- negative -positive -positive respectively- followed by a brief history of his tenure as a estate agent and his wifes current and future occupations.
Interestingly, the job choices if him and his wife are very different and I wondered heavily how they fit together. The answer to this I found on the other side of a short interlude where he ventured into the garden, thanked me for my extra help in sorting out a couple of tarpaulin issues, and then made his way back into the hallway where he prepared to photograph the kitchen. This was done effortlessly on his behalf , and with slightly more on mine as I removed the boxes and the bags that would render the shot useless. As I moved them into the alley I learned of his older sisters emmigration to Australia, his time spent visiting there and his younger sisters brief time staying with her before she came back. I also learned that his sisters relationship at the time had prompted this move there and was also the reason why she came back. His own feelings about going out there were then explored, alongisde a lengthy debate about why some people are more risk averse than others and whether we would do it- I would do so if it weren’t for my Dad and he wouldn’t because he is actully quite fond of his in laws.
This clarified he nipped downstairs to photograph the remaining rooms while I finsihed booking the dump for the 100th time this month.
Back upstairs he wandered into the living room whereupon I came in and sat down for him to take my phone number and discuss next steps, should he need to book in the viewings. I informed him I did not wish to be present as I dont want any future tennats asking questions about the house, and then feeling like I needed to lie so the landlord could sell the place quickly. I dont want to do this as a) the landlord has not done me any particular favours and b), even if he had I am still not prepared to lie.
He agreed that that wasnt my job. I wasnt sure if it was anyones job. Perhaps if it was the landlords job he wouldnt be so inclined to do it. It certainly seems to be a case of out of sight out of mind with him.
Anyway that done I , perched on the edge of my wonderful new comfy emerald green chair, he stood up packing his bits away and chattering about his birthday and his wifes birthday which it tune out are quite close together
Hers the day after his,
He recounted the narrative they go through each year at this time,
Then a message came through and he showed me a pic of his son
who ,he said , will be joined by another. I couldn’t quite work out if this was becase she was preganant or because he just knew that they would. I think it was the latter. Whatever , he clearly loves his family. His wife, is a great wife, and a fantastic mother , who he stole, he says and then laughed at his own joke which apparantly refers to the way they courted* and her age at the time – she was 20 and he was 26.

and then in amongst all this was the piece de resistance
his proposal to this woman who he absolutely thinks the world of.
“she told me a number of different days i couldn’t do it on”, he told me,” and then she told me i couldnt do it in front of people”
“so i thought about it, for two years and i decided to do it on my birthday.”
Throughout I smiled and at times laughed quite genuinely , but im afraid my laughter at this point was directed towards the anticlimatic nature of this story. As he finished, In my head I thought – really? After two years is that the best you could come up with?
i mean i guess if you weren’t expecting it then maybe it was what his expression said it was


but after two years that was your plan???


i must admit as he recounted this and then told me how he couldnt be arsed to walk the ten perhaps 15 minutes to primark (a bit lazy) to change something for his wife, I began to feel a bit disappointed.
perhaps i was expecting too much , perhaps i have done so in the past which is why i am on my own now. I dont know.
Still, i told the story to middlest and she at least agreed and laughed. “a ring in the remote control drawer of the telly unit?”
“dont forget the wink and the head nod” ,i said – “oh and the do you like that ?”

“that was good that, was wasnt it”? he semi asked/stated and I smiled a lot and then he tells me “and I said to her will you give me the best birtjday present ever?”
Smooth talking.
He could probably sell me the house that I am scrabbling around in ,and trying to get out of , as quickly as I possibly can.

*I just used the word courted and I didn teven think about it. I have never used that word before.

Dad Moments

~ ewhyard ~ Leave a comment

“Are you coming over tomorrow Splods”, my Dad asks me during our usual evening telephone call.

“Yes Dad yes”, I reply. I am about to say that he knows this, as its Thursday and I always come over on a Thursday, but before I can get beyond know, he has started speaking again, “It’s just I rather hoped you might go to Sainsbury’s for me ……. I have a list you see…”, and I hear the strain in his voice as he moves forwards in his chair, “hang on” , he continues, “just let me…” and there is a scuffle. The strain of moving is vocalised as he pushes himself up and up , out of the chair.

 I am wondering where the phone is at this point, as he needs two hands to accomplish what is now a physically demanding manoeuvre.I feel as if I have fallen, the trajectory of his voice is distant. I can just about hear him saying something

“….”

Its muffled and then

“Oh shit”, his voice rises,” I’ve dropped the phone”

I am on the floor. OK I say, quietly.

                                To myself.

He shouts, “BLOODY HELL FIRE”. The words reached me back then and still do now and I distract myself momentarily.

I look at the time – I am on one of my bedtime schedules to establish a better sleep routine, since I have got into a bad one, trying to develop more of a life beyond work and the kids. Which has just made me tired.

So, it’s back to work and kids.

“HANG ON SPLODS”, I hear my dad shout and land back in his chair “Oooaaarrffff”.

“Right now sorry about that “, he says,” Right this list I have you see,  I was wondering, hang on” he continues to fuff about.

“Ok “, I say patiently.

“Are you ready?”, he asks.

“Yes”, I smile as I reply (have been for a while). He starts to reel off the contents of a list compiled using ‘My Friends’ book. Dad refers to anyone who I know, as my friend. This knowing* can be as loose as having bought their book, so Dale Pinnock is apparently my friend.

“Your friend tells me I should be eating shiitake mushrooms”, he states.

“Oh right”, I smile as I jot down his requirements.

“He says they are good for me so I will have some of these…….

…….and lentils, red ones, turmeric, ginger. Peppers, garlic………

………Fruit- citrus please…and green beans. Yogerty yogerts please……

……..The Big Three” (Milk, bread, wine)……….

No meat though I am being a vegetarian for lent remember ?”, he asks.

“Yes Dad I remember”, I reply and remind him I have smallest in tow as its half term.

to which he sighs’ ,”Oh I was rather hoping you could get all these other things done…”.

He sounds dejected and I feel a bit annoyed but say. “it’s alright Dad don’t worry, it might take longer but I am sure I can manage”. Silence.

“So what is there to do ?”, I ask brightly

“What ?” he says

“What do you want me to do?”I ask again smiling

“When?”

(I inhale)

“Tomorrow dad, you said you had a list?”

“Oh yes well …..Where is it (shuffling and scrunching of paper) , yes I wondered whether you could pop to the Butchers you see, I would like bacon bits , you know I am not convinced that use by dates at supermarkets are accurate-they say you have to eat it in three days! The very reason we used to get bacon was that you could keep it for some time you know and during the war you needed to. Bacon from the butcher well it seems much, well better to me……….”

“The butcher Dad?”

“Yes “he replies

“But you are a vegetarian for lent?” I remind him

“Oh I know that but I need a little bit of meat don’t I ?” he muses.

“To be a vegetarian.” I wonder.

“Yyyyyeees. Well you hear about these vegetarians that eat fish so I am going to be one of those but with bacon. Do you think that’s ok?”, he asks me sincerely.

“I am sure its fine Dad”.

“Brilliant, see you tomorrow then Splods”.

(*NB: when I was a teenager my friends would often be in the vicinity of Friday night moments of ASB on the high street. Usual stuff, fights, shouting occasional plant throwing. This still goes on, although my friends are no longer responsible- in reality -In dads world they are implicated in every act going.

“Your friends have been at it again look “,– he holds up the paper which reads – YOBS Riot in the high street

“Not my mates dad”.

“Are you sure?”

“Fairly sure, it says they are teenagers I think.My mates are 45 mainly.”  I reply having had this conversation many times and no longer needing to read the article to know what it says.

“Yes well. It could be your friends”, he smarts.

 “Yes but its not. Because I don’t know any teenagers anymore. At least not as friends”

“So you say”, he replies his eyes not leaving the paper.

Eldest and I drove down the high street last weekend and as we pass the benches at the bottom of the town ,(where we used to sit and drink on a Friday) we notice a group of 11 or 12-year-olds have congregated. There is a bit of jumping and mucking about going on. Eldest leans across to me – look out Mum there are your mates.

I raise my hand as we pass them).