Occasional Scribbles

Posted by: Scribble | 29/12/2025

Since it is Christmas.

I thought I would include some writing from some years ago since it chimes so well with this time of year.I hope you enjoy it!

Musings From the Church of Childhood.

Scribble

I grew up in a household with very little ‘Church’. Religion was occasionally a topic for discussion over a Sunday lunch though equally, one of us might cautiously shut it down. “No religion or politics over the dinner table!” Sometimes came the refrain. For we knew religion raised temperatures and lead to heated discussion not always good for digestion.

For a family that had so little to do with formal church, religion crept in none the less, particularly when our grandparents visited. Our grandmother was quietly religious. Our grandfather was loudly not. This intrigued us as children. Granny did not drive then though she learnt to in her 80’s. Surely the hand of God lay in that unlikely feat. So Gramps would take her to church but he refused to set foot inside, preferring instead, to sit outside in his car, perhaps smoking his pipe and listening to the jazz he so loved, while Granny paid homage to God. We tried on a few occasions to find out why he was so anti church.

“Won’t you at least go in with Granny so she’s not on her own?” We’d ask, but he would set his mouth in a firm line, a reflection of his thoughts on the subject and we didn’t press him.

Gramps was in his latter teenage years during the 1st World War. I always thought it was the great misery and loss during this regrettable time that lay at the heart of his resistance to religion. To go from the gentle England of that time into the harsh horror of that war, who could blame anyone if belief in a God that allowed such a thing, was snuffed out?

When we were older and driving ourselves, we would sometimes take Granny to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. My recollection is a bit vague as we’d usually have had a good dinner and drinks beforehand and Granny always had a flask of brandy in her handbag ‘just in case’. What I do recall is sitting in a row with my siblings, singing loudly and giggling disgracefully. Granny would try and look vaguely serious and sincere and try even harder not to catch the giggles from the rest of us with only some success!

There’s something about being somewhere that requires solemnity that brings forth the irrepressible giggle. You just can’t help it, especially after a Christmas Eve dinner and a nip of Brandy before the hymns. One time, in a moment of collective silent reflection, there was a loud clatter. A lot of faces turned in our direction just as Granny retrieved her flask that had slipped from her purse onto the stone floor. As it dawned on us all that the upright congregation likely thought she must be alcoholic, we burst into more fits of giggles, including her, especially her. She had a marvellous sense of humour!

Those are the happy memories of visits to Church. Far less happy are the ones of school Chapel. The beginning of school terms for English boarders was usually on a Sunday and it was compulsory to be in time to attend the evening service. How many journeys on the train were spent with increasing dread as we clattered towards our destination.
The Chapel service so mixed with fear and dread for what lay ahead. Much to think about as the rhythm of the service accompanied our thoughts.

At school, I was surprised to find that many girls attended Church regularly in their family. This was a new concept to me. As we progressed through the years some were preparing for ‘Confirmation’ which had to be explained to me. We were Christened of course but that was as far as we went in our family. And if asked, to which Religion we belonged, like on a passport application, we’d just say “C of E” only vaguely understanding the notion. Only Granny was ‘Confirmed’ and even that, she told us was in her forties in what was described as an ‘odd communal affair’! And in usual fashion, she found the funny side which was funny to us too. We loved listening to her stories. Often, we’d jump onto her bed, in the morning, watching as she ‘did her face’ while we probed for more tales about her and Gramps, listening happily.

Church to us now, is for the dead. Granny & Gramps and Gramp’s sister, our great aunt, are in the churchyard together, all cremated but allowed a headstone as a focus for our sorrow. I’m not sure what Gramps would make of it, having had so little time for anything ‘Churchy’. My mother wanted them to lie together in eternity and had Gramp’s ‘ashes’ brought from the crematorium where he’d been for so long before Granny, years later, joined him in death. I expect, if asked, he’d reluctantly agree as their resting place is not actually inside the church? But I’m not sure. And surely these things are for the living not the dead?

The family home is slap in the middle of two parishes. My brother lies in the other one. He’s not with the others. His death, which occurred just before his 21st birthday and decades before theirs, is not marked with a headstone but with a lovely stone sun dial, as if marking that very brief time he was with us. I’m not sure we could have borne a tombstone for such a young man. Young people should not lie in graveyards.

I have visited it less than a handful of times. He is not there, he is not in the patch of earth under the pretty sundial, too young to be so, time out of place & not in the way that the others, having reached an age, rightfully are. He remains in my memory, my heart and my thoughts as I’ve had to go on without him. He will only be there when I myself am in the ground, wherever that turns out to be, when he will return to greet me. Of that I am sure.

As I’ve grown up the country has changed as it must. I have seen the decline in the importance of our Church of England that’s been at the centre of our country, indeed it’s very foundation and the instrument of authority for our soon to be, newly crowned King, and I find that despite everything, I mind. I mind very much.

As a growing child, where the church was more or less absent, it was nevertheless there. It was there in the Midnight Mass and at Christmas, it was there through my upbringing based on Christian teachings, if not formally so. Our parents taught us values and standards that are all to be found within it. It is there in the way Granny always attended the early Wednesday service that unlike the Sunday one, was discreet and not showy. She wasn’t the sort that liked to be noticed attending on Sundays. She used to say that in her experience rather too many obvious Christians, didn’t seem very Christian when it came to it. She took an interest in the changing Archbishop of Canterbury. I’m sure she’d be very surprised at the current incumbent.

The Church’s golden thread, wove it’s way through my childhood with my mother’s diligence in doing the church flowers though only attending a service sometimes at Christmas. And so it was there too, when she gathered us all together for the Carol service. “It’s only nine hymns and prayers” she’d say as if this was the deciding factor to solicit our attendance.

It is very much there, now that it isn’t. The glimpses that threaded through my childhood of something that was wholly good, if not an active part have come fully into focus. I note the changes allowed by our Archbishop and I shudder. Granny would not only be shocked but mortified that we cast aside so readily much that held us together in that other world. I’m glad she’s not here to see what the Church of England has become.

My garden abuts the churchyard of the little church, where I now live. In keeping with my upbringing I do not attend the infrequent services, carried out by a shared vicar who services several churches in a rural area. But last Christmas, one dark night i noticed the lights on in the church and realised it must be the Carol service. I dashed across the garden and flew inside on that cold frosty night. I was asked to do a reading which took me off guard. But I understood my duty in that little church with a smattering of people from across the wide fields of the parish. It was, despite my nerves of public speaking, deeply, unexpectedly moving.

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.”

To all people? Even those like myself always on the fringes but somehow certain that there is something greater than ourselves. Something to be cherished lest it disappears from us altogether.

“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”

Amen to that.

End.

Twenty Years Catch up! A Start!

Since re launching my blog, I’ve been mulling over how to span the intervening time as someone kindly asked what happened through those long long years.

A couple of things stand out. Much about loss of something or another. The loss of darling Skinny two, (Skinny one lived in London with us, our first doggie who died before we moved to our permanent home here.) Skinny two, eventually died young at the age of five, followed by Cat some years later.

But Skinny three & I were really running things closely together on our own. The Other, as readers may recall, took to his bed for years. Everywhere I went, she came too. Every car ride, picking up children from school, watching endless school sports matches as the younger Teen became an excellent Rugby player & his hockey team reached county finals and the Elder Teen also a fine rugby player, became an excellent cricketer too.

Backtracking slightly, we’d moved away from family and settled elsewhere. Another unfortunate story, not for now. But within a year, the Other became ill. Suddenly, I had a new home, new schools for the children and absolutely no support system. Abandoned basically as the Other succumbed to ill health. Not a very courageous person, I literally had to take on every part of our lives, essentially on my own. But I always had my animals and Skinny three played a huge part in being a devoted companion. Her and the chickens I kept for eggs, some Indian runner ducks and mallards, became my escape from illness and abandonment. How I treasured them all.

At some point after years of tedious visits to hospital appointments, the Other, one day more or less rose from his sick bed and began helping to some extent. Things slowly improved. He took on chores he could manage, accompanied me to grumpy teacher meetings as one or other of the Teens ran aground at school and things grew better from therein.

But those years took a toll. I was worn down by lack of money, too much responsibility I’d always expected to share and loser jobs that paid too little.

As the Teens grew older, I wasn’t able to pay enough attention to their growing up. Turns out though, that they’ve grown into delightful, polite, lovely men! Slightly unconventional- neither have set the world on fire, one has a steady job, a wife and child and another on the way in April!
The younger Teen, also grown into a lovely man with a good set of values at his heart, is still with us at home. Time has let him down. It is now so hard for your children to leave the nest, rents & property prices etc being what they are. He deals broadly in antiques, a love we all share. He is also a bit of an entrepreneur with many fantastic ideas, some of which others have brought to market, as we’ve not been able to help him further such possibilities. Just don’t know how to, knowing nothing of business!
But we muddle along together and are close.

My darling animals had to be let go. The fox continued to eat my feathered friends until, it seemed we were only having them to feed the foxes. Earlier on, I’d bought three Indian Runner ducks, the sort that stand tall and upright and brought so much joy. We’d also been given a single Mallard chick by a friend of the boys who’s family bred them for shooting (horrible). But as we literally became his parents, as he strived to keep up with us across the garden, sat on my lap as I emailed and wrote on my computer; we realised as he matured that our love wasn’t enough. He needed some duck companions! We went to get two girls from a lovely man who reared his own out on the marshes.

This is really another story for another time. But in short, I quickly became overwhelmed as wild Mallards joined our three with lots of food and a pond we dug for them. As each new set of ducklings matured, they would find the courage to fly and would do circuits over the property, landing deftly on the water. Lovely to watch.

Unfortunately, the flock became unmanageable and the local gamekeeper offered to ‘rehome’ many of them. I left strict instructions that only the wild ones were to go, not my original Mallards, nor the Runner ducks. To my absolute dismay, I arrived home one day and they’d all been caught and taken, every last one. I rang the gamekeeper to see what had happened explaining that the runners don’t even fly. The response was, if they don’t fly, they won’t be shot. It took me a long time to get over that.

So no more ducks or chickens. My joy in them was lost. I never got anymore. Nowadays, I only have interest in the wild animals that come to the relative safety of my garden. Pheasants, various doves, Muntjack deer, hedgehogs, the foxes even, mice and so on. All are welcome and fed. Several beautiful pheasants have reared their young here and as long as I remember to put the right feed in my bird feeder, a multitude of garden birds visit which gives much joy.

I also have Skinny Four! She’s actually five in age now. Following the death of her predecessor who’d been such a strong and devoted companion, I couldn’t quite decide to replace her. A year went by until my mother, sensing my loss and loneliness in being without such a special part of my life, encouraged me to look for another, kindly offering to help with the purchase since now, what were poachers dog’s, fairly inexpensive, had now become prohibitive.

I looked around, sad at all the constantly bred animals for profit. And after an exhaustive search in my area where I should have found another lurcher but couldn’t , I happened upon the most darling puppy. I fell instantly in love with her. I had to have her. We raced over several counties, far from home and arrived at a shoddy set up. But Skinny was smart. She sat on my lap, her nose settled comfortably in the crook of my warm neck. She was never letting me go! Even the breeder noted that she’d not behaved like this with anyone else! Maybe!

Skinny four, looks like a tiger! She has a fabulous tiger striped coat. She turned out to be quite a lot bigger than our others Lurchers, a real ‘long dog’ as Lurchers are called here. She has a beautiful nature, prefers being with us rather than tearing through the fields as the others had. In fact, she’s so slow, always checking out every blade of grass as she ambles along on walks. Not at all what you’d expect. She’s very keen on routine! Breakfast, ball playing, out for mid morning walk, sleep, afternoon walk, supper, bedtime biscuits and then waiting patiently for me to come up to bed! She puts up with the car as she prefers to come with us, she puts up with The Boy, nearly two, my dear sweet grandchild and she puts up with their dog as they were both puppies together a lot of the time as they’ve grown up together within the two households.

I suppose that broadly brings the years closer from then to now! In the interests of not being too tedious, I’ll leave it there for now.

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Posted in Random | Tags: Animals, Birds, Catching up, Family, Life, Nature, Updates 2025/6, writing

Posted by: Scribble | 23/12/2025

Summer Storm with Skinny

From an earlier post.

A huge slate grey thunderous cloud hangs low overhead. As I walk through the middle of the vast wheat field I feel it cloying, smothering, it seems so near. I think I hear a grumbling deep within its belly, like a monster stirring from slumber. Huge rain drops begin to fall heralding an inevitable soaking. I realise I will not get home without being drenched and since it is warm, storm warm, I make up my mind to embrace nature’s fickle temper. I cast off any cares and lift my face to the skies. It’s a lovely sensation and I shut my eyes and breathe in. There are lots of smells in the air when it is heavy like this – the corn smells stronger and there is a faint saltiness from the far off sea.

There’s something wild and exciting about being out in a storm. I can feel the electricity thick in the humid air, a shiver comes over me as I realise that I am a good target for a lightening strike being out in the open space of the ‘Prairie’. The trees are miles away leaving Skinny and I the only upstanding things around.

I remember being in a lightening storm once before at the beach. We were a long way from shore right out on the sands as the tide was way way out. Suddenly, one of the boys cried out with amazement and pointed at me. I had very long hair then and I do not exaggerate when I say that it was standing on end, right above my head, like a sort of human hedgehog.

I remembered too, being a child and how we used to deliberately rub our jumpers on our tummies and then hold them above our heads, hair leaping to the static of the crackling wool, sparks flying, much to our amusement. I’d looked across at the others and laughed wildly as they too had hair standing upright but it wasn’t quite as dramatic not being so long. Some time later it struck me that the power of the electricity required to pull my hair up like that was immense and quite possibly thoroughly dangerous, out as we were on the sea bed, water lapping at our ankles. How easy for lightening to reach down to the waiting signal and strike.

Back in the fields I felt quite nervous and wondered what the statistics are for people being struck by lightening in a large open area such as this. Skinny, sensing the strangeness in the air had her nose pointed upwards and seemed to be ‘reading’ invisible signs, listening intently, head slightly tilted, dead still. Genetic information handed down from her ancestors warned her to be cautious and she didn’t go far from me or run with her usual sense of abandon. Large raindrops fell onto my face and ran down onto my neck. Where they fell on Skinny, her coat turned a dark Palomino and her face, light grey usually, was dark ash now. She looked completely different in the wet, dark shadows around her eyes made her look mournful and sorry for herself.

We walked on for a bit until a chill wind blew up and Skinny and I looked at each other, both seemingly thinking the same thing. We ran for home, tearing across the field, up the lane, furious thunderous rumblings on our heels and leapt through the front door.

It was good to be home.

Occasional Scribbles

Since it is Christmas.

Twenty Years Catch up! A Start!

Summer Storm with Skinny

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