Liz Young's Blog, page 2

POOH BEAR

 

POOHBEAR

 

Pooh was different – he wasspecial –

he wasn’t yellow, he was red;

born one Christmas in astocking

on the end of John’s smallbed.

 

He and John were neverparted,

everywhere togethertravelled,

till one day with all thatloving

Pooh’s red tummy cameunravelled.

 

‘Oh!’said Pooh Bear, ‘All my stuffing’s

coming out!’ ‘Don’t fret’said Mum,

‘Here’sa bit of good strong sort of

stripey fabric for your tum.’

 

Soshe set to work and made his

tum and back and legs likenew;

Poohand John could go on playing -

that was all that botheredPooh.

 ........................................................

Anyone who knows and loves A.A.Milne's writing will realise why I chose this Pooh Bear poem today. It's taken from a book of poems I wrote for my children about their special toys, and the story of John's Pooh Bear is true.

In fact, years later, I was asked to re-cover Pooh completely so that he would be hygienic enough for John's own son!

If you would like to read the book, it's on Amazon - STRIPEY CAT and Other Poems.

Thanks as ever to Rochelle, our never-failing hostess, and to Fleur Lind for this week's image, which took me straight to the Ashdown Forest in Sussex, UK, and to the tree in which lived the owl known to Christopher Robin as Wol.

AT THE WATER'S EDGE

 

AT THE WATER'S EDGE

Karen stood right at the edge, the ebb and flowof the moonlit estuary echoing her emotions. Each retreating wave dragged shinglefrom beneath her feet, and she fought to keep her balance, just as her mindstruggled to maintain equilibrium in its turmoil of thoughts.

How could things have gone so wrong? She was tempted to letthe tide take her, but when the wash of a passing ship knocked her over she scrambled upand back.

Back to life without him, back to prove she could do it alone.

Noman was worth her death.

.....................................................................................................

I've been having deep and meaningful conversations with a friend about our former love lives - you can blame this sombre story on our retrospection. Though to be fair, the last time I entertained such dramatic thoughts I was a teenager! 

Thanks to Sandra Crook, a regular contributer of photos, for this image, and to Rochelle  https://rochellewisoff.com/  for hosting our select group of writers on Friday Fictioneers.

PLAYING THE MAN

 

PLAYING THE MAN

Back when I was just nineteen

I learned to ballroom dance;

how it came to happen

was totally by chance.

My manager’s young daughter

needed a chaperone,

so off to a dusty hall we went,

me and my plus one.

Because I was the elder girl

I had to play the man,

although I studied all the steps

a girl should know.

I can

even now dance properly,

but only if I lead –

try to steer me backwards

and I trip over my feet.

...............................................................................................

There's a lot of truth in this story, although later I did, thanks to a talented friend, learn to follow a man's lead when dancing. Since then I put more self-expression into my dancing, but even those days are over. I turned 80 a few days ago and the sight of me gyrating to modern tunes is not something I care to inflict on anyone else, but my feet still tap, and occasionally I dance, alone in my living room where nobody can see!

Thanks are due, as always, to Rochelle for hosting our group of writers on her blog,  https://rochellewisoff.com/  and to Dale Rogerson for the image which prompted this week's stories. The 'Dance Studio' in which Juliet and I had our lessons was much less colourful, resembling as it did the entrance to a sleazy dive rather than the class establishment it claimed to be.

Two photos - one of me plus family and friends enjoying a pub lunch on The Big Day. The older man is the one who taught me to dance with a man! Taken by my elder daughter who flew in from Northern Ireland to surprise me.

And one with my younger grandson who was working but came round later.

I felt very loved.

A MIDNIGHT SWIM

 

A MIDNIGHT SWIM

They couldn't resist the lure of a free concert, and the waitertold them bikinis and sarongs were the norm. 

Starting on the vodka in theirhotel, they mixed generous slugs into bottles of Coke, and went to the beach.

It was heaving with party-goers, the music loud, the atmosphere electric as they danced on sand that still radiated the day’s heat.

Lights sparkling on the sea looked different at night – mysterious and hypnotic. Dropping their sarongs, they slid naked into its silken coolness.

Beach cleaners found their sarongs at dawn.

.................................................................................

The dangers of mixing alcohol and the sea - many lives each year are lost this way.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and for this week's photo prompt. You can read other stories, or write your own and join in, by following the Froggie Trail from her blog:   https://rochellewisoff.com/

SAY IT WITH FLOWERS

 

SAY ITWITH FLOWERS

After I’d posted somethingcontroversial on 

social media the hatred and threatening

comments had spiralledout of control, so the flowers were a pleasant surprise when I got home thatevening.

I didn’t recognise the scrawledsignature, but I fetched a trowel and planted them in my window box, then pickedup the watering can.

An unexpected odour wafted up –someone had filled it with petrol! That could have ruined all my plants, Ithought, putting it down carefully. Really, this was going too far.

Then the grey box under the tap beganto tick.

...................................................................................................................

Another image, another 100 word story. I have so many stored on file that I may have to make a book of them! Thanks to Rochelle for keeping all of her Friday Fictioneer flock supplied with inspiration, and to Rowena Curtin for the photograph. A friend who came to tea earlier today brought me flowers, but her intentions were purer than the giver of those in my story!

AND as it's World Book Day today, allow me to remind you that I have a slew of books for sale on Amazon.  Here's a picture of them all to nudge you into buying mode!

Or, for my local followers, a reminder that all seven of my novels can now be borrowed from the library.

...

Happy gardening!

A WHOLE YEAR

 

AWHOLE YEAR

It’s been a whole year since Petedisappeared.

A year of running the farm alone, gettinga second job to put food on the table, and answering the children’s questions thebest I could.

The scars have healed now and a kindof peace has descended, but I couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever turn up.

Then I turn the TV on this morningand there’s a news flash.

A picture of Pete’s car being hauledout of the river.

I really thought they’d never find him,but he’ll be bones by now.

Nothing to worry about.

.............................................................................

Thanks to Fleur Lind for the photo that prompts this week's slew of stories from Friday Fictioneers. To read them all, follow the frog link from   https://rochellewisofffields.files.wo...

 

TRAIL BLAZERS

 

TRAIL BLAZERS

They piled out of the car and the kids raced through thehouse to find Granpa.

‘Hey Granpa, what’s that old wagon doing here?’

‘To remind us how lucky we are. Look around – what do yousee?’

‘The usual stuff – your home, the pool, Mum cooking withGranma.’

‘Exactly. A house with a kitchen, enough water to swim in.But my Great-granpa arrived here in a wagon like that one. All their goods,beds included. They had to find water and light a fire before cooking dinner.’

‘That’s ancient history!’

‘Not that ancient – it was only five generations back fromyou.’

.........................................................................................................

We should remind ourselves occasionally how far we have come - and in a relatively short time. I live in a cottage that only had a bathroom installed in the 1950s, and still has the old outside toilet. The cottage has two small bedrooms in which previous families have raised families of half a dozen or more children!

Thanks to Alicia Jamtaas for the photograph that Rochelle chose this week. You can read how others interpreted the image by following the frog link from her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/

 

WINTER SCHOOL

 

WINTERSCHOOL

Winters were colder in my childhood. Even in England snowdrifts were deepenough to dig a cave, snowmen were huge, and it was worth making a sled.

The walk to school was hazardous, the pain as chilblainsthawed out was horrendous, but the best part was playtime.

The top end of the playground became a skating rink, wherethe most adventurous created slides. A run to pick up speed before you entered twentyyards of ice, your feet and body poised to reach the end without falling.

I remember the thrill to this day – the bruises are longforgotten!

 ................................................................................................

See that shining line in the snow? It's probably thawed, but it could be one of  those ice slides of my distant youth. Did they cause broken bones? Probably, but all I remember is the fun. Children shouldn't be too molly-coddled anyway, though no doubt these days such sport would be banned by a health and safety inspector. 

Thanks to Dale for the photo and, as always, to Rochelle for hosting FF.

ON THE PIER

 

ON THE PIER

Luke and Gerald had been playing ‘dodge-the-waves’ onthe pier steps when the sea suddenly increased in strength, and now Luke was holdingon desperately with one arm. 

As a huge wave swamped Luke, lifting him like apiece of flotsam, Albie swung down the ladder onto the fishing platform andlunged to catch the child by his jacket, then climbed the step to the upper levelwhere he handed Luke over to his shocked father.

‘That gypsy boy is a brave lad,’ someone said, andGeorge beamed with pride. His adopted son’s acceptance by the pier communitywas assured.

.....................................................................................................................

Peter Abbey's photo gives me the opportunity to use an extract from one of my books! Thanks are also due to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her site  https://rochellewisoff.com/ from where you can follow the froggy link to read other stories - or even to join our select group!

Incidentally, this story of a near-disaster is based on truth - my little brother was nearly swept off a breakwater when I, as a teenager, took him down to the beach on Brighton. I just caught him in time!

My novel HELTER-SKELTER is the story of Albie, a gypsy boy adopted by the owner of a helter-skelter on a pier in Kent, UK, and tells of his growing up in the years before WW2 and his subsequent war service. You can buy the book and its sequel CAROUSEL from Amazon.

Helter-Skelter: Amazon.co.uk: Elizabeth Young: 9781717344755: Books

BRAMBLE JELLY

 

BRAMBLE JELLY

The steps opposite the bakery led to the verybest blackberries, but everyone knew they were reserved for Old Betty - it was said herbramble jelly would cure everything from coughs to cancer.

Trudi, recently arrived in the village, scoffed,“Peasant nonsense!” and set out with visions of blackberry-and-apple crumblefor dinner. She picked fast, the brambles parted easily to let her reach theplumpest berries, and her basket was soon full. 

Wearing a self-satisfied smirkshe turned to leave, but there was no way out of the thicket.

The villagers all agreed Old Betty’s bramblejelly was even more effective that year.

...................................................................................................................

And the moral is...don't mess with tradition, especially if you're a newcomer!

I've used an old story this week as I'm busy editing my next book, but I couldn't ignore Rochelle's photo. If it wasn't for the red barns we could be in England, but our barns are either brick, weathered timber or corrugated iron, and I've never seen a red one!