Where has the week gone? I can’t believe that it’s already time again to turn in my entry for Lisa’s Bite Size Memoir challenge, the theme of which this week is ‘Childhood Illness’.
As soon as I saw this prompt, I knew exactly what I was going to write about although as always, the challenge is to write in 150 words precisely.
Thankfully I didn’t get ill too often as a child but the worst illness I had was the measles. Apparently I was very ill with it, to the point of hallucinating and having to stay in a dark room for days. Something to do with protecting my eyesight. I don’t remember much at all about it, which is probably just as well.
My bite size memoir is about something quite different:
Childhood Illness
When I was six, I needed an operation to have my tonsils removed.
I remember being carried in the arms of a doctor while wearing a backless robe, then placed on a white bed in the brightly lit operating room. I was asked to count to ten and the next thing I knew, I was back in my own bed on the ward. It was dark, I was alone and I felt sick, so I got out of bed to look for the nurse.
She scolded me for getting up and gave me some medicine, which I immediately threw up all over her.
I was there for two weeks and every tea-time we had insipid looking scrambled eggs which tasted of nothing.
I love eating them but even to this day when doing so, and for no apparent reason, a wave of nausea occasionally washes over me.
One of my greatest pleasures in life was reading stories to each of my three children. Those times of cuddling up together, giggling and being silly, or waiting wide-eyed to turn the page to find out where the adventure took us next, were some of my happiest.
As a little boy in the early 1980’s, my eldest son’s favourite book was ‘Where’s Spot?‘ by British author Eric Hill. Written for pre-schoolers, the book was innovative, as it was the first of its kind to have interactive cardboard flaps as part of the illustrations.
My son loved it when I read out the words while he got to lift up the flaps, only to find a surprise character hiding behind it! It could be a bear hiding behind a door, a crocodile hiding underneath a table-cloth or even Spot’s mother, Sally hiding under a cosy blanket.
Whoever it was, we always had great fun reading the stories together.
We bought every Spot book as soon as it was published and when we moved to California, I was delighted to find that Spot was just as popular in America as in the UK.
In 1990, we attended a special event held at a library in nearby San Luis Obispo to celebrate ten years of Spot books. Not only did we come away with a handful of goodies, but also a copy of Spot’s Birthday Party for our collection.
Then one day I had a very interesting conversation with a friend of mind who told me that his son was good friends with Eric Hill’s son, Chris. I have no memory of how this line of conversation came up, but it turned out that Eric Hill had moved from England to the central coast of California in the early 1980’s. I was thrilled to discover that we were practically neighbours!
The next thing I knew, my friend offered to pass on our copy of Spot’s Birthday Party to Chris so that his dad could autograph it for us.
So it was that in 1991, I wrote a letter to Eric Hill which I sent along with our book via his son. A little while later, my friend returned not only the freshly autographed book, but a hand-written and signed postcard for my boys and a neatly typewritten letter addressed to me on formal ‘Spot’ letterhead.
Autographed Spot’s Birthday Party book by Eric Hill, 1991 The autograph gives this book extra-special meaning.
To my boys and on the postcard he wrote:
“I’m glad you both like Spot and it’s nice to know you have seen him on both sides of the Atlantic!”.
Front of Postcard
Message from Eric Hill, 1991
He expressed how much he appreciated my letter and in his letter to me, said:
‘As another ‘Brit’ I can understand that you sometimes get homesick for England and so it makes me feel happy that my books help somewhat to bridge the gap between here and England’.
I was very touched to then read this:
‘…your kind letter and many others that arrive from both the UK and the States give me a wonderful boost whilst I am currently working on the next Spot title.’
Eric Hill’s letterhead. Receiving his letter and hand-written postcard to my boys was an extra surprise and meant so much to us!
The letter was hand-signed ‘Eric Hill and Spot’.
So I was sad to hear of Eric Hill’s death at the age of 86 on 6th June at his home, which, according to this Huffington Post article, was in Templeton, California. He lived even closer that I thought, a mere five miles from where we had lived in Paso Robles for ten years.
He would have been in his late fifties when he found success with his Spot books and then moved to California. He went on to sell more than 60 million copies of his books.
Of course our paths never crossed, although we came close, but I would have loved to have bumped into him and told him that this late-bloomer Brit who once lived in the same ‘neighbourhood’ as him is now chasing the writing dream!
I’m pretty sure that he would have smiled and said, “Well done, and don’t give up!”
Eldest Son reading to Aspie D – Another favourite, Curious George. Extra lighting needed! 1993. (c) Sherri Matthews 2014
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This post is written in honour of Eric Hill and ties in with this week’s Weekly Photo Challenge theme which is ‘Extra, Extra’. Eric Hill, best-selling author, went the extra mile for me and my children by taking the time out of his busy life to not only autograph our book but to write a personal letter to this once homesick ‘Brit’ and her boys. What a thrill it was.
All extras from a real gentleman who left a wonderful legacy for young children and their families for generations to come. Reading to our children is vitally importance and is something I passionately believe in. Every author of children’s books is special in my eyes, but Eric Hill holds an extra-special place in my heart.
My condolences go out to his family and I thank Eric Hill for bringing so much joy to my family and millions of others through his delightful Spot books. Ours are safely packed away waiting to be read to a new generation of little ones!
Lisa has set us up with the theme ‘First Jobs’ for this week’s bite size memoir. I’m looking forward to reading everybody’s experiences, should be very interesting.
Here’s mine, in 150 words (no more, no less!):
First Jobs
Fresh out of school in the summer of 1976, I started my first job at Eastern Electricity in Ipswich.
Along with five other girls, I sat at a large desk, watched over by a supervisor. We had to ask permission to go to the loo. It was worse than school.
When ordered down to the computer room, I escaped, briefly, from the tedium. I loved staring at the huge, robot-like machines with the whirring mad-eye spools.
Returning with heavy wads of green computer paper, I spent hours reading every line for numbered codes while Nurse Ratched watched my every move.
I vowed to get out and ‘better’ myself; college course and four years later I was working as a trainee paralegal for a law firm in Los Angeles.
Still, there was one good thing I remember: The office overlooked Ipswich football ground and at lunchtime, we watched the players practising.
Me outside our home in Suffolk, summer of 1976 with a bouquet of flowers given me by my mum after receiving my O Level results. This was before I knew what I was in for with my first job. It made me wonder why I bothered working so hard. Forget A Levels, I wanted to earn money. Ironic that I ended up taking a full-time college course anyway! (c) Sherri Matthews
What I enjoy so much about the Weekly Photo Challenge is the way it enables us to express thoughts and ideas as well as share memories. I love the creative freedom it brings, giving us the choice to be as literal or as abstract as we want to be.
Sometimes I find it easier to share my thoughts by writing poetry, particularly during times when I struggle with the way I want to convey certain emotions. This is certainly the case for ‘Room’, this week’s theme.
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Room to Breathe
There you are, but where is your shining smile
when you ask me, “Won’t you stay a while?”
Searching for familiarity, I see nothing.
Just a lost hope. A broken expectation of
something I once believed in.
When I was young.
What is that cast about your eyes? How can you
ever hope to disguise the confused distortion of a
truth now long abandoned? It hides in isolation
seeking sweet-solace escape. You met me there once,
in light-years gone by.
Passing time swept through.
Ancient Venetian Villa, Crete. What stories can be told from this long-abandoned room? (c) copyright Sherri Matthews 2014
I cannot help but observe as you nervously tap your foot –
The laughs are large, small-talk is off limits.
Oh yes, the swagger brings to mind the age-old saying
that a fool and his money are soon parted.
Who said that anyway?
Not much of a promise.
Words whispered in frenzied conversation of dreams
and longing, sieved through until they are dust.
Yet still you poison my innocence, long gone,
with stolen joy. You hope my lips are sealed
lest they might destroy and tell of
secrets locked in shame.
Room in a cave. Lapad, Croatia. What secrets did this cave hold long before it was turned into a bar? (c) copyright Sherri Matthews 2014
But here I am. The child who never stopped reaching for
sunshine’s hope, seeking comfort in aching peace
where, in divine solitude, I listen for the sound of my name.
This, I know, will soothe my walk to freedom
If I take firm hold. When you
give me room to breathe.
Room With A View. Taken through the window from the top room at the Pencubitt Country House Looe, Cornwall, England. November 2013 (c) Sherri Matthews
Blog hops are doing the rounds at the moment and a couple of weeks ago, Imelda very kindly invited me to take part in a Virtual Blog Hop.
Having recently taken part in a couple of blog hops, you’ll be pleased to know that I won’t be boring you with yet more questions/answers about my writing process,
Instead, I’m taking this opportunity to showcase two lovely blogging/writing friends of mine:
Imelda, who kindly featured my bio in her blog hop post, and Jennifer, as a featured onward blog-hopper!
I would also like to thank Imelda, not only for her invitation to the blog hop but also for this gorgeous photograph of ‘Bluets on Rock’ which she gave me as a gift for taking part. What a beautiful gesture!
Bluets on Rock Courtesy of Imelda – My Wall
I am keen to show-off Imelda’s photograph because this is a mere taste of what you will find on her blog. She is far too humble, as I notice she doesn’t mention her photography once in her bio.
So I’m doing it for her! I love going over to Imelda’s blog to read/view her exquisitely crafted poetry and photography which never fails to impress her many readers. She is also a lovely lady with a very kind and caring heart.
Some of you may already know her but if you don’t, I hope you will pay her a visit. I know she would love to meet you.
Imelda
Imelda
Imelda is wife to a wonderful man and mother to four young boys. She has always loved poetry since she met Thomas Gray in high school.
Seeking solace from the chaos of raising four children, she started to write poetry. She has been writing poems on a more or less daily basis for a little over two years now.In time she hopes to publish her own poetry collection.
Meanwhile, she regularly posts her pieces in her blog, MY WALL (short for My Word Wall, which was inspired by the high frequency word wall that she put up for her sons’ lessons).
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Now I would like you meet Jennifer. Again, some of you may already know her but if you don’t and you want to meet a lovely young woman who is already a published author and inventor of an entire language (yes, I’m serious), then please do visit her and read more of her work.
It is amazing that I’ve met so many wonderful bloggers here on WordPress from all over the world, as well as some closer to home. Jennifer is one of those (although I confess to being just a little bit envious of her exact location, as you will see) as we live in the same county!
I really enjoy our ‘chats’ about our love of walking through the woodlands of the English countryside and our recently discovered mutual enjoyment of picnics we took as children with our dads.
Jennifer has a heart of gold and brings light to every path she crosses.
Jennifer
Jennifer K Marsh
Jennifer is originally from Salisbury, Wiltshire, in the south-west of England, but now resides in West Somerset. She lives on the outskirts of Exmoor National Park, which is a great source of inspiration for her.
She is the author of the ILIMOSKUS story, which is an upcoming environmental fantasy trilogy. ‘Times of Old’ is the first book in the Ilimoskus trilogy, and she is currently working on the second instalment.
The natural world is incredibly important to Jennifer, which is undoubtedly part of the inspiration for the Ilimoskus race, society, and storyline. She aims to spend a lot of her time going for walks away from the busy world to take in the beauty and quiet of nature. She very much believes everyone and everything deserves compassion and respect, for it makes the world a better place, and harmony between all is so important
After publishing my neighbour from hell post last Friday, heading down to Sussex to spend the weekend with my family proved to be the perfect remedy.
Getting my post out was a challenge in other ways due to mounting frustrations with WordPress and its resident gremlins stealing my comments away from other blogs. It’s like typing through mud and zaps my blogging energy.
Yet, when blogging goes smoothly, it’s great. I’m on a roll, I zoom through everything, energy buzzing through me.
The ebb and flow of conversation as it networks across the vast plain of this ether neighbourhood oozes fresh inspiration, keeping us motivated and encouraged to keep going, to keep writing.
The connections, community, and friendships gained through blogging also bring sweet surprises: Sometimes, we get to meet our fellow bloggers as I did last weekend when I met up with my lovely blogging friend Denise.
She very kindly offered to give me a couple of books and since she lives in the same area as my boys, we arranged to meet up for a quick coffee!
This was the first time either of us had met a blogging pal before and it was really wonderful.
We chatted away as if we already knew each other (which we do, thanks to blogging!) and I could have sat with her all day as we talked about our favourite subject – writing, of course!
Denise writes fantastic book reviews, among other things, and I am in awe of the way she cuts right to the core of every book she reads. We hope to meet up again and I certainly look forward to it. Thanks again for the books Denise!
Once back home and glued to my laptop, the joy of blogging came into its own, greeted as I was by the wealth of loving and supportive messages left by so many of you in response to Friday’s post.
I shed a tear or two, overcome by the kindness shown me. Thank you so much.
It happened a long time ago but now, more than ever, I see that in fact that madman didn’t steal our dreams, though he tried, hard; our dreams lived on and although some of them might not have worked out as I hoped, the most important ones did and here we are.
Here you are.
We are vulnerable when we cast out a private and painful piece of ourselves across any medium in the public domain and in today’s world, so many are quick to judge, condemn, and vilify.
I was especially challenged in this way when I started sharing stories about my dad.
Again, you showed me compassion and understanding. You also showed me that I had a story to tell and so I shall, as time goes by.
With Father’s Day fast approaching, I have been thinking about what to write about my dear, 81 year-old jail-bird dad.
Resolved, then, to start the week afresh with verve and vigour, I fell at the first hurdle when I returned home to a message he had left on my answer machine.
His health is declining and the news wasn’t good.
As the days unfolded this week, while struggling to absorb all that he told me , I sought help and liaison with prison staff as they try to help me make arrangements to visit my dad.
But this father of mine is all at once stubborn and proud, a loner.
He will do things his way.
He doesn’t want to see me in his present state. What about me wanting to see him? I am not exactly au fait with having a sick father in prison. Who is?
I hold out my arms for my father and words form in my heart. When I am troubled, I deviate from the things I plan to write and revert to darker expression. It helps.
I breathe in the trust and safety of the privilege of having the freedom to do so.
Now I wait each day for news of my father with a heavy heart and I can assure you that I am in no mood for WordPress gremlins.
All at once, as the week unfolded, I witnessed first hand that outside the realm of WordPress, our blogs, our ‘author platforms’ are noticed.
Opportunities are sent our way when we least expect it.
It happened to me.
Then it didn’t.
As quickly as my excitement took flight, so was it grounded with a sudden, hard landing. I didn’t even have time to grab the oxygen mask on the way down.
I am left with the chance for further opportunity down the line and if it happens, that will be wonderful.
Meanwhile, I would like to get off this roller coaster ride. Please. For the record, I never have liked them.
My boy Eddie (c) copyright Sherri Matthews 2014
Sometimes I wish I could swap places with my cat Eddie. He’s got the right idea and I think I need to take a page out of his book.
The biggest challenge for me with Lisa’s ‘Camping’ prompt for this week’s Bite Size Memoir is how to cram in all I could write about it using just 150 words!
Still, what I love about these challenges is that they are a wonderful exercise in ‘tight writing’ and cutting out all the dross.
Great practice for any writing, especially for someone like me who writes like I talk, with more rabbit than Sainburys (and I do hope that it still means what it used to and not something far ruder…you never know these days).
Talking of which, I’m often told off by my kids when using certain expressions because apparently they now have totally different connotations.
For instance, if you say you are going to ‘hook up’ with someone as we used to say back in those ancient days of old, it no longer means just meeting up. Now it means, well, hook up in every sense of the word. Think ‘friends with benefits’. I think. Honestly, I can’t keep up.
Here’s a You Tube clip of the blast from the past 1980 release by duo Chas ‘n’ Dave singing ‘that’ song for those of you who might wonder what on earth I’m talking about with this whole ‘rabbit’ thing (meaning talking too much, taken from Cockney rhyming slang ‘rabbit and port’ for talk):
Sorry for the digression there (hope you don’t mind Lisa!) but felt an explanation was necessary.
Here then is this week’s 150 word entry:
Camping
I remember camping as a child in England and in California with my own children.
Happy memories of waking up freezing cold with condensation dripping on my face.
In California, we camped by the lake which is just as well as it was so hot in the day that the only place we could keep cool was in the water.
At night, when the stars lit up the black expanse of mountain sky, we enjoyed sitting around an open camp fire, roasting hot dogs and telling ghost stories.
Aspie D enjoying sitting around the campfire, Lake Siskiyou, California, 1990’s (c) Sherri Matthews 2014
At some point, I decided that sleeping on an air mattress was no longer an option and many years later, living back in the UK, hubby and I gave caravanning a go.
Caravanning in the UK – Wye Valley, 2010 (c) Sherri Matthews 2014
We sold it and now we shoot for the dream – a motor home. Then a camping/road trip across America.
I am thinking an Airstream. Too much to ask? I dream on.
‘…capture an image that tells a full story in a single frame.’
We’re asked to put our National Geographic hats on and become a documentary photographer, capturing a candid moment in time of a person, place or thing through a single image.
So, what story shall I tell for this challenge? There could be so many. Time to think and trawl through the memory banks, which is easier and more helpful than going straight to the endless photographs. For as many as I have saved digitally, there are hundreds more stashed away in boxes.
The photo that came to mind though was easy to find, and this is my split-second story:
Both my boys were Scouts. In fact, Eldest Son made it all the way to Eagle Scout. You bet I’m proud! Youngest Son Nicky, seen here as a Cub Scout, went on to Boy Scouts until he decided to pursue Tae Kwon Do instead.
An annual event held by the Boy Scouts of America is the Pinewood Derby.
For my British friends, this is a competition whereby you fashion a racing car out of kits comprising a block of pine wood (hence the name!), plastic wheels and metal axles.
The cars are then raced, in twos or fours, down a special wooden track raised at one end so that once let go, they travel by their own momentum.
All very specific and all very traditional. Also very competitive with the dads (and some moms!).
It’s all about the way the lead weights are strategically positioned on the car, how the wheels and axles are fitted, how well, or not so well as the case may be, the car is sanded, painted and varnished.
The cars are weighed before they race to ensure they are all ‘legal’ and it is all done by process of elimination.
Nicky had grown up watching his older brother enter the competitions over the years and we had a few disappointments along the way; the car was too slow, too bulky, the wheels were put on wrong, the weights in the wrong place. You name it, we did it.
Then it was Nicky’s turn.
The race was announced, to be held at one of the elementary schools in our community, and Nicky and his dad set to work. All very serious stuff. We figured we had learnt a few lessons along the way.
The day came, Nicky showed up but he knew only one or two other boys as most were from visiting packs. All standing about proudly showing off their cars, excited as can be.
Then the race began. Tensions rose, dads took their places, anxiously pushing guiding their sons into position when it was time for their cars to race.
The elimination process began. Nicky got through his first heat, his car whizzing by the others. Then the next heat, his opponents biting the dust and one flying off the track half way down.
Heat after heat and Nicky’s car kept going, beating every rival until the very last race and it came down to the last two. The big one.
By now the crowd could only manage a few whispers as all everyone could do was to stare at Nicky and ask, “Who is he? Where did he come from? Is he going to win?”
Dear reader, Nicky won that race and we were ecstatic! He was pretty pleased too! The look on everyone’s faces was an absolute picture as they asked the question, “Who is this usurper out of nowhere?”
I’ll leave you to imagine the rest of the story as told by the others in the photograph (none of whom I know!) What’s for certain is that the boy next to Nicky, who was the favourite to win apparently, doesn’t seem too pleased with having come in second place.
But my boy is oh-so-pleased and his winning smile made this mama as happy as can be.
Thank you so much everyone for your lovely responses to my first bite size memoir post last week, you really encouraged me!
So, carrying on, here is my next 150 word memoir written up for Lisa’s ‘Sports Day‘ prompt for this week. Hope you like.
Sports Day
When I was ten I changed schools and despite being the product of a ‘broken home’, I thrived at my new village primary school. Sports Day was one of my favourite events. We earned ribbons for winning and I won the 50-yard dash and was thrilled.
By high school my competitive edge really kicked in. I got the chance to compete in the high jump, long jump, javelin and yes, the running. By then I had progressed beyond 50 yards to the 100, 200, 400 relay and even the hurdles.
A dark-haired girl, Carolyn, tied with me at every race.
We urged each other on to run faster and faster. When we ran on the same relay team I imagined that we were running at the Olympics for Great Britain. The crowd roared and cheered. We did it!
I was sad that my dad wasn’t there to cheer me on.
‘This week, share a photo of something that says “twist” to you. It might be that perfect ice cream cone, a yummy bit of liquorice, or something unexpected that surprised, shocked, or startled you.’
My take on the ‘twist’ theme might seem strange as it’s about some mischievous little birds called House Martins.
We were visited by our cheeky feathered friends during the first spring after we moved to our present home six years ago.
Having migrated all the way from Africa to the UK as they do every year and looking for places to nest, a large group of house martins decided that they rather fancied the look of our house very much indeed.
We, in turn, were delighted to have them. At first.
House martins are found throughout the UK between April and October, more commonly in areas where they can nest beneath the eaves of houses close to agricultural areas with woodland and water.
In this way, they are well placed for two things: plenty of insects, their food supply, and mud which they use to build their nests (mixing it with their saliva).
The problem, we soon realised, was the manic flurry of nest-building taking place under the eaves was directly above our bedroom window.
The constant coming and going of the busy sets of parents flitting past our window (and there were several thanks to the colony of nests our house martins had built) kept our two cats very amused indeed.
It was like an interactive bird video game for them; ever-alert, they crouched and paced intermittently on the inside window ledge, their heads twitching rapidly, left and right with every flutter of the blue-black wings, taunting them mercilessly as they zipped by outside.
Of course, this meant that we had to keep our windows closed so that the cats wouldn’t leap out trying to catch these exciting new toys.
This made for a very stuffy bedroom during the hot summer months but the ceiling fan we installed when we moved in came into its own.
The house martins chattered away to each other, even louder at dawn and as their chicks hatched.
Not only had they moved in but they claimed squatter’s rights; they staked their claim and they weren’t going anywhere until they said so.
They also pooped down our windows until October when, all the chicks having fledged (house martins often have a second brood) our boisterous visitors left as quickly as they had arrived.
Come the winter, the nests having been abandoned, we cleared them away, cleaned our windows and our early morning peace was restored.
Then came the surprise, the ‘twist’. Although I had grown up in the countryside where house martins were a constant spring/summer presence, I realised just how little I knew about them and my interest being piqued, I decided to find out some more.
Firstly, I was concerned to learn that, according to the British Trust of Ornithology website, house martins are on the Amber list, the first criteria of which is defined here by the RSPB Bird Guide,
‘Species with unfavourable conservation status in Europe.’
Their numbers have dwindled by some fifteen percent and there are house martin surveys, projects and tracking events, all to better understand them, where in Africa they spend their winters and their behavioral patterns, hopefully preventing them from becoming endangered.
But I was astounded to learn this from the RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) website:
‘House martins and their nests are fully protected under the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981, which makes it an offence intentionally to kill, injure or take any wild bird. It is an offence to intentionally take, damage or destroy the eggs, young or nest of a house martin whilst it is being built or in use.
The Act allows for fines up to £5,000 and/or a 6 month prison sentence for every bird, egg or nest destroyed.’
Not that we ever had any intention of interfering with or removing the house martins’ nests when in use, far from it, but who knew? We certainly didn’t.
Yet, the following year and every year since (yes, they’re back again!) house martins return to the very same spot where their nests had been, swooping past our bedroom window, clinging to the brickwork just below the eaves, as noisy and playful as ever.
I was really surprised when our friends returned and then to be able to get these shots of them:
House Martins in Somerset (c) Sherri Matthews 2014
You can see evidence of the old nests beneath the wooden eaves just above our bedroom window.
More visiting House Martins in Somerset (c) Sherri Matthews 2014
Maybe they are deciding whether to nest there again but even though we have done nothing to prevent these beautiful birds from doing so, there are no signs of new nests.
I wonder, are these visitors the families who hatched here a few years ago, returning to breed and rebuild their summer homes? I wonder why, despite all the interest, they haven’t re-nested? I would love to know!
It seems that we know far less about these enchanting, but very noisy and messy little birds, than we realised.
One thing I do know, and as much I love these little beauties, if they do decide to nest here again this year I’ll be investing in some very good earplugs and will make sure to cancel the window cleaner until well beyond summer’s end.
A View From My Summerhouse 