Funny thing, when I started to think about what to write on the subject of mementos, my thoughts ewre immediately drawn to a small black writing case, secreted away in my bottom drawer. The case is filled with letter. Letters from old boyfriends. One is especially memorable. On a holiday with my parents in 1974, at the tender age of fourteen, we landed in Lisbon during Mardi-Gras. On board I met a very handsome, young, Portuguese boy. His name was Rui Ventura and he was from Almeda Condareas near Estoril.
Rui was cruising with his family and we were soon chatting like old pals. On returning home, he started writing to me. He invited me to spend Summer with his family, My father would never allow it, I'm afraid. In one letter, he proclaimed the he loved me adding that it was because I was 'simple'. I knew exactly what he meant of course. He meant that, unlike the rich girls who he knew in Estoril, I was uncomplicated. When I showed the letter to my friends, they were completely hysterical. The idea that he would call me simple was so funny.
I have lots of other treasures hidden around the house and some that are proudly displayed. On one wall is a sampler. embroidered in 1796 by my Great-Great-Great Grandmother, Sarah Coats. Her Granddaughter, my Nana, lived with us for many years and after she died my Mum was upset that she nothing to remember her by, except for few photographs. Looking for towels in mum's bedding chest one day, I came across the sampler, wrapped a bit of cloth. Soon framed and hung, it was a delight.
On the facing wall there is usually a framed print owned by my parents, (at Christmas I substitute it for a wreath). It is an orchid corsage, dropped on a flight of stone steps, surrounded by a cigarette stub and coloured streamers, the remnants of a party or ball. It always reminds me of Cinderella's lost glass slipper.
When I was eight, I was scheduled to complete at a ballroom dancing competition at The Adelphi in Liverpool. There was to be a 'parent and child' Cha Cha Cha comp and I asked my dad to enter with me. He didn't want to let me down but didn't know how to do the dance. He booked some private lessons with my own dance teacher and walked me onto the floor. Very near the end, he made a mistake and I was very cross and stormed off in a huff. To our surprise we won the competition and were awarded a small wooden trophy with figures of a couple dancing on the top. Of all the prizes that I ever won, it remains my most precious and has pride of place in my display cabinet,
I have other treasures. A black and white photo of mom and dad on their wedding day sits on my fireplace. I speak to them every day. A carriage clock that was a wedding gift from my dear Godmother ( now departed} and a Coney fur cape my sister bought me to keep my shoulders warm between rounds of competitions when I was ten, still lives in wardrobe. A woolen flat cap that belonged to dad stands guard on my coat rack. I used to wear it to bring in the New Year, when I lived alone with my two young children. Somewhere upstairs is a small leather suitcase, filled with photos from childhood.
I have lovingly kept mementos of my babies. First shoes, christening gift and outfits, early paintings and school made Christmas cards. Swimming and gymnastic certificates, school reports. There is so much, I wonder how I manage to live amongst it all. These things I have loved, although many of those they once belonged them have long gone but are never forgotten.
Poems can be mementos too, capturing particular moments in time. When I lost mom at the ripe old age of ninety-seven, I wrote this and read it during her send off at St Mark's, Layton.
Villanelle for Mum
This day begins our mourning, now at last we cry.
Laid in a simple casket, you take your last repose.
Daffodils will bow their heads as your cortege goes by.
Tonight there’ll be another star to light up heaven’s sky
the angels caught your gentle spirit as it rose.
This day begins our mourning, now at last we cry
A loving mother leaves us, though we feel her ever nigh,
We’ll catch her scent in summer’s sweetest rose.
Daffodils will bow their heads as your cortege goes by.
Adrift without our anchor, we are caught up in a sigh
of anguish for of the family bonds you chose
This day begins our mourning, now at last we cry.
Geography will part us and as the years pass by,
no lynch pin now can hold us close
Daffodils will bow their heads as your cortege goes by.
Our mother, friend, our councillor, for you, I know we’ll try.
The Carleton garden will bear your sweetest prose,
Today begins our mourning, now at last we cry
And daffodils will bow their heads as your cortege goes by. Thanks for reading and a very merry Christmas to you all. Adele Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
