A Step Out of Time…

I have just spent the last couple of hours sitting in a little taverna, ‘ταβέρνα’ in Greek, by the side of what passes for a roundabout, here in the little village of Pastida on the island of Rhodes.

Watching the everyday lives of the locals as they pass back and forth across my line of vision is both relaxing and informative; I find it a great way to discover the nature of the people on this beautiful island. A wonderful simplistic way to pass several leisurely hours under the hot summer sun, enjoying a visual spectacle of shimmering ballet, of tranquil living, enviable in its simplicity. A reminder of those lost but more important and innocent times from my childhood, when the world was slower, more simplistic and carefree. A bygone age when motor cars were a rarity and streets were pristine clean and places of social interaction for all generations.

The lives of the locals here appear so much less complicated and stressful than those of our friends and neighbours back home; nobody seems to be in a hurry to get anywhere fast and each person appears to take pleasure from the slower pace of life. Almost everyone spends quality time together, greeting and sharing news with each other; a symphony of communication that nothing and nobody can halt. Age is irrelevant as excited chatter crosses all generations, both young and old greet each other to share and exchange news. No-one is rushing off to catch buses, or racing about like a mad person on a supermarket shopping spree; nobody is living their lives at breakneck speed, just a community living in harmony with each other. Everybody seemingly has a myriad of things to share with each other, and afford themselves the time to enjoy the moment seemingly with neither cares nor distraction. The subdued chatter coming from all directions does little more than slightly disturb the air in the heat of the midday sun, adding to the relaxed atmosphere. The atmosphere around the square is both electric and active, yet overlying it all is a tangible serene calmness; a contradiction of terms, an anomaly of time. Hard to describe and difficult to understand.

Unlike numerous other destinations across Europe where I’ve had the pleasure of spending my holiday time, here in Pasteda nobody is out to sell me anything, nobody is calling out to inform me their goods are cheaper than Asda nor trying to convince me I need another piece of cheap tat to cart back home. Those types of establishments don’t exist on these quaint homely street. The nearby cool bakery, a wonderful visual display of creative culinary delights, needs no aggressive spiel, no persuasion to buy. The delights in the welcoming window speaks silently for itself. Further along a couple of headscarved women clutching their wicker baskets, wait patiently in the queue at the butcher’s shop. Their amused laughter drifts out into the heat of the day, slowly melting and joining the cacophony of sounds already swirling around me. There are no cross-words, no raised voices, just friendly banter, friendly chatter.

Approaching another taverna on our walk across the street, we are greeted like long-lost friends, welcome to sit awhile in the shade out of the heat. No pressure on us to purchase anything, just the offer of a seat, a place to rest in the heat of the day, with the option to call on the owner if drink or food is needed.

I am fascinated by the laid-back attitude of the vehicle drivers who pass-by, each of them intent on undertaking their little adventures and journeys, slowly but surely reaching their destinations for the day. Various vehicles pass effortlessly around each other in what can only be described as a carefully choreographed fairy-tale ballet, the noise of the traffic background music, ensuring the effortlessly movement of the vehicles. Little heed is paid to the blue arrows on what proudly passes for a roundabout, primarily ordering vehicles to drive to the right, but passed unseen or regarded as unimportant as the flow of cars is reversed to assist the passage of large vehicles. The cars, vans and wagons, and a variety of other vehicles stop ad-hoc and greetings and handshakes are shared with pedestrians. A scooter gracefully glides across the junction in the wrong direction. But nobody pays any attention, nobody gets upset or raises a voice.

No complains or comments: Everyone is too relaxed to criticise anyone else. They just take things as they come. Children sit proudly and without fear on the knees of elder relatives on aged scooters, or in the front seats of cars without thought for seat belts or over-crowding.

I am intrigued by the odd behaviour of an elderly man who has been loitering for a good twenty minutes in the centre of the road. He occasionally leaning on the wrought iron railings that wrap around the metal barrel that passes for a roundabout, presumably to ease the strain of standing so long. Cars continue to glide past, waving to him as they cross his path. At one point I think to myself, maybe he is the traffic warden, if such people exist in this island that time forgot. But that premise is proven false as I see him wandering leisurely across to the taverna opposite. He chats with the owner of the establishment for a couple of minutes before again taking up his post in the centre of the village square. Eventually, an old but serviceable car pulls up to a stop on the roundabout, next to the man who then climbs into the passenger seat of the vehicle before he, and it, motor off along the road.

Patience is definitely the order of the day. During the time I have been sitting here watching I have only once heard the beeping of a horn and that was when a huge coach blocked the narrow road it was attempting to enter. All the other vehicles had to reverse and pull into wherever space they could find to allow the bus access across the
square. The solitary beep came from a lady, not in anger or frustration, but as a warning to oncoming traffic approaching the town square was there was a blockage round the corner. Incredibly, the traffic jam didn’t completely halt progress, bikes, scooters and motorbikes continued to weave in and out of the stationary vehicles carrying smiling drivers on the their way.

Despite what appears to be the haphazard attitude of the drivers, there is no element of danger apparent; no officials attempting to direct their seemingly carefree lives. Everyone appears to be taking responsibility for their own actions, apologising when they get to close when passing each other.

Slowly the gender of the people of the square change. There are virtually no women left to be seen, to be replaced by much older men, presumably grandparents, riding their Vespas across the square from all directions before disappearing down a side street: only to return shortly afterwards with young school aged children perched precariously on the knees of the scooter drivers. Older children both male and female walk arm in arm on their way to destinations unknown; no squabbling, pushing or shoving, no cross words shared just innocent camaraderie.

A sudden influx of traffic fills the square, in what appears to be a uniformed raid on the town. Car after car travels the street opposite where I am sitting, vehicles filled and driven by men in uniforms. Policemen or army personnel changing shifts at what I presume is a nearby base. But the invasion is short-lived. As fast as it started the onslaught ends and order is once again restored.


The Real Meaning of Christmas

This morning one of my daughters tagged me in a photo on Facebook, asking, “Remember this?”

Wow, that was a blast from the past. I not only remember the Christmas stockings in the photographs, I’d made them with two of my children, and even though it was a long time ago, I still remember that Christmas extremely well. How things have changed since then.

The year was 1975 or 1976, and my husband and I had moved to a new house with our two young children. My husband had just recently started working; it was a poorly paid job and we didn’t have a lot of money. I was doing my bit by doing a few hours in a pub, behind the bar, and we struggled to keep our heads above water.

We were managing day-to-day, but the extra bills were very worrying. The old coin meter in our previous home had been robbed when some kids had broken into our flat. We were responsible for the meter so we had to pay the missing money back to the gas board, on top of our regular bill and so the debt came with us. Despite constantly asking for a gas meter reading and subsequently, the bill we were still waiting nearly a year later and each quarter that passed hiked the worry up another notch. I had tried putting some money away for when the gas bill finally materialised, but growing children have needs, shoes, coats, food, just the basics of life. And the children came first.

Finally, a couple of weeks before Christmas the bill turned up on our mat, demanding payment for the year’s supply of gas and the amount owing from our flat. It was a lot of money, money we just didn’t have.

I contacted the company and frankly, they didn’t want to know. We owed this money, they wanted it, and it had to be paid before 23rd of December. End of discussion.

My husband was on two weeks holiday over the Christmas period, and had received his pay for the entire month. So it was with a very heavy heart we went on the bus to the city centre Gas Board shop and paid over every penny we had. There hadn’t been quite enough so I had put the family allowance I’d been trying to save, towards paying the bill.

It was two weeks before Christmas and we were penniless. We had two children to feed and luckily I had bought a little extra food for the holidays. It just meant come Christmas we would have very little if anything left. And more importantly, we couldn’t buy any presents for our children. Nothing, and we no way to provide them with anything.

Clothing for them were fairly easy. I had an old treadle sewing machine sitting in the back bedroom. I could make them something new for Christmas but it would have to be from whatever I had round the house.

I found a piece of crimplene fabric in my basket, rough and scratchy but blue, suitable for trousers for my son. So, using his outgrown pair of pants as a pattern, I tapered the flared legs a little so it fitted on the material and still left a little to make him a little waistcoat and bow tie. I hadn’t been able to make him a shirt so I cut the sleeves off a one which he’d out-grown and made them short so he could still wear it. The bow tie was a sort of a success, but it hung badly as the only elastic I could find for it was old and worn; it had as much stretch left in it as a piece of old grey string.

The waistcoat would have benefitted from a bit of lining but I has nothing suitable that I could use. But fastened with the two old brass buttons out of my treasure box it looked quite snazzy. My treasure box was my button tin, filled to brimming with beautiful vintage fastenings and buttons of every conceivable size and shape. Inherited from my Nanna and added to from jumble sale items it was a great source of fun for the children. Sorting, counting, making different noises. The huge old coat buttons from the forties and fifties are great for making whizzers*. ( I’ll add instructions at the end so you can try it too.)

For my daughter I made a dress from a small piece of floral cotton fabric that I had that was just sufficient for her size. I added some lace that I had taken off my slip, sewn around the neck and the sleeves and a prettier dress you couldn’t have found anywhere. She tried it on and told me she was like a princess as she spun round and round to make the skirt lift up into the air. There was enough lace to sew around the top of her ankle socks, and a tiny ribbon bow also taken off my slip was added to finish them off.

I didn’t have time to knit her a new cardigan, I’m a very slow and often reluctant knitter. It’s was not my favourite hobby. So my daughter had to make do with one of her old ones.

That was the clothes sorted, but what to do about the rest of Christmas? At the bottom of my wardrobe I found an orange corduroy skirt that I’d made for myself the previous year. I had only worn it a couple of times because it was rather bright and gaudy, but it was ideal for two Christmas stockings. The children helped me to decorate the sewn up socks, using scraps from my fabric box. A piece of blue from the pants I’d made, a scrap of the floral material I’d used for my daughters dress, a little remnant from a suit I’d made myself. And finally the inside of the hem of my dressing gown, which was a lovely shiny fabric that my daughter admired. It was easy to cut the piece without damaging the dressing gown too much.

The brown cotton trimming that went round the top came from an old cushion that was going to be thrown out, but it fit the purpose well. The kids helped with pinning and sewing the stockings and were pleased as punch to be making things together.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough orange corduroy for the stocking for our dog Tipsy, but I found a small piece of felt that I embroidered her name onto. I later called into our butchers and asked for a bone for her, so that was another present sorted. We didn’t want Tipsy to feel left out, that would have upset the kids.

Another day and another job. We spent a couple of hours, cutting newspaper into strips to make into paper chains. How dirty were our hands? We couldn’t resist rubbing the printing ink on each other till we ended up looking like little black elves. We rolled about on the floor, laughing uncontrollably, tears running down our filthy faces leaving long thin streaks where the pink of our shiny cheeks shone through.

After a break for tea and toast, we hung the chains around the room, brightened up with three or four balloons left over from a birthday party. Then we set to again, making spirals to hang on our old tinselly tree. I’d been given it by my mother for our first Christmas together. It was definitely past it’s prime, shedding bits of dusty tinsel all over the floor.

We needed an angel, ours was broken. The elastic bands holding her arms on had perished and I couldn’t find another to replace it. I tried mending her using thread but her poor arms hung limply by her side, making her look so disheveled. So we made another celestial being, using wool I had scavenged from an old knitted baby cardigan, a piece of the cornflake box and some silver foil. And not just a new angel but several little people made from scraps of left over wool were soon adorning our tree. Santa, snowman, soldier, a boy, a girl. We soon had enough beautiful decorations to decorate out tree. With its string of lights twinkling in the darkness it looked magnificent, worthy of any home.

We scavenged in the cupboards, looking for things to wrap up to hang on the tree with our homemade crackers. The Oxo box, soap powder box, a tennis ball, a bar of soap, they all made ideal ‘presents’. Before long we had a decent pile ready, along with homemade gift tags. We had fun writing out the tags to the dog, my son’s pet spider, the vicar. The list of recipients was longer than the number of ‘presents’ we had but it didn’t matter. The kids were having such fun, they took to wrapping up socks, a scarf, till everybody had something.

The children went to bed that night very tired but happy. So I got to work making them a present. The double doll I made for my daughter was the easiest. Two old socks from her dad’s drawer soon transformed into Cinderella, wearing rags at one end and her dress for a party at the other. Her yellow wool hair was sewn up into a curly bun for the ball. A tiny crown fashioned out of silver foil sat upon her head, a truly beautiful princess.

The garage for my son was the hardest to make. I had some pieces of ply wood and long pieces of wood in the garden. I was not the most proficient with a saw but after drawing up a plan, and working out the measurements, I finally managed to cut up what I needed without losing any of my fingers or toes. I had helped my dad with woodwork in the past, and had the scars to prove it. He’d shown me how to make a plan, but hadn’t shown me how to make joints. But I got round my lack of knowledge by looking at how my wall units were made and adapt it to my garage using a similar technique.

It took me a couple of evenings to put the garage together before I painted it using some white gloss I had left after decorating. I wasn’t sure if it would work but I wrote my son’s name across the front, and marked out spaces for his cars to park with an old red felt pen I found in the toy box. I’d tried the little blocks of paints we had for colouring in but they just rubbed off. Anyway, the pen worked and I was quite pleased with the result.

Things were looking a lot more positive, Christmas wasn’t going to be too bad at all.

The only thing left now was some food for Christmas Day. I had bought a huge sack of potatoes, so we could have them. There was very little left in the fridge, a piece of dried up cheese and a carrot, but I was sure I could rustle up some sort of meal for us. I had a tin of corned beef which I mashed with the boiled potatoes, sprinkled it with cheese and made a pie. Luckily, I always had flour in the cupboard as I baked most weekend, so I managed a few scones, and some fairy buns, without the icing sugar. But the scraping of jam spread on top of the buns looked just as good.

But then we had a wonderful surprise. I’d mentioned to one of my neighbours about the bill we had to pay. She’d had a word with a couple of other people, then turned up on our doorstep on Christmas Eve with a cooked chicken, enough vegetables for a couple of meals and a strawberry jelly and a tin of fruit.

We’d just returned from the Christingle service at our church clutching the golden oranges I was planning on making into a pudding for our Christmas dinner when our neighbour turned up on the doorstep with the basket filled with goodies. She’d even put in biscuits for our dog and a selection box for the two kids. She wouldn’t come in when I invited her, just wished us all a very happy Christmas and left.

And I cried.

Cried because I was ashamed: ashamed that I could not provide for my children.

Cried because of the kindness of people I barely knew; because of the goodness of people, some of them strangers.

Cried because despite everything it was going to be a good Christmas after all.

I cried even more the next morning when my son and daughter woke up and found the bits and pieces in their stockings, when they ooh’d and ahhh’d over the meagre presents I’d made. Cried when they went to bed that night, with happy memories of a day filled with laughter, silly games, and family time spent together.

Those stockings lasted a long time, year after year they were hung for Santa.

I never knew what had happened to those stockings till the other day, when my daughter asked, “remember this?”

How could I ever forget? The kindness of others can be overwhelming sometimes. The spirit of Christmas, the love, peace and sharing we witnessed that year will always stay with me. I always try to repay that huge act of kindness that made Christmas so special for us. So each year I quietly give thanks for everything we have and try to do some small act of kindness for others.

I wish everyone a peaceful Christmas time and ask that you give a little thought to someone less fortunate than yourselves.


If only…..

Are all children like mine? Asleep, like sweet cherubs, their rosy cheeks shining in the light of dawn. But as soon as they awake, the opening of their bleary eyes act as a trigger to launch their mouths. Mouths that start up like rusty machines, newly oiled and coiled, ready to burst into life. Bickering and fighting, squawking and squabbling, turning the bedrooms into a no-man’s, a bloody battlefield of petty altercations.

Shrieks of……

“where did you put my woodwork apron that you borrowed the other day?”

“That’s my blouse, get it off, I wanted to wear that today!”

“Mam, where my football boots?”

“Tell her Mam, she’s doing it again. Tell her stop looking at me”

…. float down the stairs to mingle with the clanking of the old washing machine that has already started its daily routine. Clinks and clangs, bumps and bangs as shoes and bags are moved around on the bedroom floors as they scrabble to find missing objects.

“Mam, tell him to get off, he’s pulling my hair”, follows the bloodcurdling screams that vie for my attention and struggle to compete with the three different tunes floating on the air, a cacophony of aural bombardment guaranteed to wake up even the deadest of door nails.

if only….

they could agree on one tune in the morning, or wear earphones.

If only….

they would get dressed quietly then eat their breakfast like civilised beings. Or are such mortals a myth invented by people who would never admit their children were also morning monsters?  Appalling aliens?

But no, they fight over the bathroom space; about the towels, of which there are many;  over their own tiny portion of the mirror.  Why do girls need five feet of personal space each before they feel they can brush their hair to some degree of tidiness? Why do boys need such a huge amount of elbow room to brush their teeth.

If only….

they were more tolerant of each of other.

If only….

they could see they all have needs and weaknesses. Every morning, seven days a week, 365 days a year without pause, as regular as clockwork they never fail to perform the alien invasion of the ‘war of the worlds’. Orson Welles would applauded their production, and revel in the originality of their histrionics.

Eventually, seated silently at the kitchen table they eye each other with all the warmth of a cobra poised to strike at the first opportunity. But the silence is short lived, the cease-fire shorter, than a  70’s mini skirt, over too soon, and battle is resumed. Everyone wants the same cereal, but the amount in the box is insufficient to satisfy them all.

If only…..

manufacturers could squeeze just a bit more into the box, then there’d be ample for everyone and there wouldn’t be a problem. Life would be easier, quieter, more civilised.

There should have been more than plenty milk for the morning meal, and there was till one of the girls decided to drink it by the glassfull. No milk, no cornflakes, no problem. If only…..

If only…..

they had not been raised to communicate with each other at meal times.

If only….

they been taught not to talk at the table.

If only….

Eventually, the front door closes and peace reigns, and I sit savouring the stillness in the air. A huge intake of breath and it’s time to tackle the rest of the day. As I stand and move toward the kitchen to empty the now silent washing machine I glance out of the window to see a group of children I barely recognise, as they make their way up the garden path.

Having walked over the pristine step at the front door, through the magical portal that turns monsters into laughing happy children, the siblings were revelling in each other’s company, united as one to the outside world.

If only….