Helen Spencer2013-06-19T13:27:58-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=helen-spencerCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Helen SpencerGood old fashioned elbow grease.The Lo-Tech Times of Childhoodtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14699662012-05-02T05:13:13-04:002012-07-02T05:12:13-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/family stories (see below for more info).
When I was growing up, I can remember that my Aunt had an awe-inspiring piece of tech equipment in her house. A 'stereo' in a sideboard. Nice, eh? I thought it was a. mazing. But there was a dawn of a new era just around the corner for music. In the early 80s we packed away our record-player-in-a-suitcase and went on a family shopping trip. We were suddenly the proud and very modern owners of a 'stacking' stereo system. This little beauty would not only play our 7 and 12 inch vinyl treasures, but also had two (count them, TWO) cassette tape decks, so that we could record from one to the other. This required deft fingers and multiple attempts in order to remove the 'clicking' sounds as you pressed the 'play' and 'record' buttons down at the same time.
As for the telephone technology of this period, this was a purely static device with a large and rather cumbersome round 'dial' which would click a lot when you poked your finger in its holes and turned it. The curly wire (yes, there were once wires) was designed to entangle itself within itself, in a inextricable puzzle-like fashion. Older brothers, in my experience, would just leave it there, in a yoga-like knot, unuseable. It was always worth setting out to make a call a couple of minutes early in order to free the handset from this viper-like coil, and begin the long, slow process of dialling (especially if it was a long number).
In the early 80s, however, a new kind of 'cool' came to town in the form of the 'Brick'. Not really handbag material, and we used to laugh at the businessman who carried around a briefcase with a battery in it. That'll never catch on.
But the telephone paled into insignificance in terms of importance compared with the TV set. I can remember the day when our Rumbelow's rented TV was upgraded to a new set. It still had the same three crappy channels with very little content on any of them, but a new gadget was now in our possession. The introduction of a hand-held remote control brought a whole new kind of lazy into our lives. We now no longer had to actually get up to flick from BBC to ITV. Unbelievable. Here beginneth the downfall of the human race.
As if that wasn't enough, the world changed for good when some Dweeb at Sony brought us the 'Betamax' system. Now we could actually go and eat our tea in the dining room (snore) and still not miss Blue Peter! Things couldn't get any better than this, surely, we sighed....
But it seems our astonishment was not yet complete. This small box of talking images which sat in the corner of the Anaglypta-clad lounge would soon be playing host to the one and only Atari 2000. Video games cometh. Granted, my brother and I had to curb our enthusiasm during the necessary hour-long warm-up period, as wires were disentangled, plugged in, plugged out and back in again, and the long-awaited picture began to crystallise on screen.
But when it did, BOY did we PONG!!!
Please tell me you remember all this old paraphernalia!! If you were a child of the 60s, 70s, 80s or beyond, we'd love to hear about the technologies of your youth, so share your memories with us here.
Next week I am going tartan! Rollermania will be back in town as we cut a rug with the Bay City Roller boys and say 'Bye Bye Baby'. Post your memories of the band and join in next week!]]>Joe's Letters from WWII: Ten Fillings and the Browning Machine Guntag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.14584812012-04-27T07:58:18-04:002012-06-27T05:12:02-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/
This emotional journey will revisit the stories of my Uncle Joe once again. I hope you will enjoy them, and think of your family as you read.
Joseph Henry Thompson (pictured, here) was born in June 1925 in Birmingham, England. The eldest of 4 children, and brother of my father (dad being the youngest). I never knew him and my father hardly had the time before his tragic demise post-war at 22.
Joe 'joined up' to the RAF, along with thousands of other young men, in 1943 at the tender age of 18. He left his widowed Mother, Olive (my Nan) and 3 siblings and left for training in London after Christmas. This letter is from his first posting to the Intake Training Wing (ITW) in Bridlington, just 2 weeks or so later, where he has been sent for 6 weeks of intensive, tough training.
Letter 12 - 29th Jan 1944.....Letter transcript:
"Same Place, Friday Night.
Dear Mom and Kids,
I received your parcel today and it has relieved me a great deal as I thought there may have been something wrong at home. I've only received the two letters enclosed in the parcel and I've been wondering whether you've written others that I've not yet received. I'm very grateful for the second cake which, although it's been knocked about a bit, it will fill a gap after tea for many a night. I'm glad of the books as well, as 'Aircraft Recognition' is a very important subject here (an Air Gunner CANNOT make a mistake) and if I fail in it I have to have the whole course over again.
EVERYONE in the Billet is envious of my pyjamas! By the way the 'Allowance' people HAVE got a cheek, they must think you can live on fresh air. Let me know what happens and if its possible I'll see the C.O. about the claim if you don't get a suitable reply. I see also by your letter that I've not told you about the Laundry here. We are allowed to have some washing sent every week and it's paid for by the RAF. That's about the only thing you get for nothing'!
I have enquired about photos and I will get some done next (pay?) day! There's only one shop down here that does 'em and that's rather posh!
Tell Joyce* that I've not even heard the news on the radio since I joined this mob! Blimey, it will be a treat to listen to 'Poe' music when I get home! Also tell Brian* that I've only been to the Pictures once since I left home, it's too expensive even at a 'bob' a time!
The course now is getting to an unimaginable pitch! They work and lecture us at such speed and intensity that we don't rest properly even after we finish for the day!! At night we sit up writing out lectures and doing 'homework'! I'm having to write this letter at top speed! The Browning machine gun is the bug-bear, I never knew that such a small thing could contain so many small things in such a small space, each doing 'umpteen' small things!!! If, a few months ago, someone told me the names of al few parts of the Browning, I would have goggled at him in sheer admiration!! But now I feel that I could talk all day on the darn thing and I'm only 1/3 of the way through the course!
I believe I told you in my last letter that I've got to have some of my teeth filled today. Well the dentist told me that I've got to have 10 fillings! I had one today! The fillings are a very expensive type, they will not pain at the cold at high flying altitudes. He puts in a 'lining' first and then the metal. He also told me that when all of the ten have been filled, the cost will be £6!! *(I don't pay!) I go again to the 'torture chamber' next Wednesday!
In your letter you spoke of the discomforts of this dump. Well, three blokes in the ground floor had the greater part of the laths and plaster fall on them when someone in the room above started to chop some wood!! "Home sweet home!"
Let me know when and how Den* gets on when he starts work. He'll be the first 'wallpaper basher' in the ancestral line! Stop me, what a come-down!! While I remember, did Bri write that letter himself, if he did, "well done mate!" Ask Dennis if he can still write!
This morning, by the way, we had our 'Gas Warfare' examination. I'll let you know how I got on. The greatest of importance is attached to Dinghy Drill and other aspects of Air-Sea rescue at this and all other stations*. We get a pile of lectures and practice - practice - practice. That is the main reason why so much fuss is attached to our health and physical fitness. We MUST (so they tell us) be hardened to stand any extra physical and mental strain as in the case of a 'ditched' pilot and crew. We get P.T. every day! If the weather is fine we hae (22 a side!) football on the sands! It's darned good fun!
I must finish now and it's about time too! Some of that cake will go down nice with some NAAFI coffee! So, good night and God Bless,
Love to you all, Joe. xxxx
P.S. I've 'found' a pen or have you noticed!!"
*Joyce is Joe's little sister, and the only girl of 4 children
*Brian is my Dad, the youngest of the 4 kids
*Den is Dennis, the second eldest son
*£6 in 1944 would be approx. £215 today!
*Joe will end up being shot down into the sea on his inaugural operation, so, although he doesn't know it yet, this will be of serious value to him in the near future
It is strange reading a letter that was written when my Father was just a small boy of 9 years old, referring to his writing skills. Hard to imagine a vulnerable little brother, being addressed in such a loving and 'matey' fashion by his grown, older sibling, who must have appeared such a man, such a hero to them all.
Sadly, the letters to which Joe refers, from his Mother and siblings, have been lost over the years for this particular period, although I do have many for later, which I shall introduce to this series in chronological order as they appear. They serve only to enrich the conversation and give us some insight into both Olive's mindset and the family cirumstances, struggling to survive alone during the war, with her 3 youngest children.
You can find other letters from WWII with a different slant, at the marvellous http://lettersww2.com/ where life in the US Army can be compared with my Uncles British RAF experiences at the same time period in our history.
Joe's full story is beautiful and tragic. He was our family hero. He IS our family hero. If I knew how to complete an effective RAF salute, I would salute you now, Joe. Long may your memory live in our family stories.
I hope to post a new letter from Joe's correspondence with his Mother here every Friday until they're done. It will be a turbulent and heart-wrenching journey. Subscribe to the Blog to make sure you don't miss any of it.
I noticed this week that there appears to be a new fashion skirt in town. They're calling it the Mullet, apparently, in homage to the eponymous and much-maligned 1980s 'business in the front, party in the back' hair style.
As an 80s teen myself, I can provide personal testimony on behalf of the many interesting hair and fashion combos which ran as rampant as my hormones back in the day. Personally, I was a Lady Di disciple *ahem*.
But in honour of the hairstyle which was so-good-they-have-named-a-skirt-after-it-30-years-later, I give you my Top 5 awesome and mighty Mullets of all time...... Go and check them out online. You know you want to!
Coming in in a solid 5th place, Andre Agassi. He stubbornly clung on to his wisps at the bottom until there was nowt left on the top. A blond bouffant.
In 4th place, Mr Billy Ray Cyrus. Possibly realised that his music might sound better with his ears covered.
In 3rd place, the almost unbeatable Michael Bolton. The loss of his locks apparently inspiring his hit record, "How am I supposed to live without you?"
Our Runner Up.... Chris 'why ay' Waddle. Half of infamous footie duo Hoddle and Waddle (you can't make this stuff up you know)...Click on the link for an extra surprise!
But the surprising, outright winner..... Melanie Griffith!!
Who knew that Melly was a staunch supporter of the Big M?!! Taking the Ginge to epic proportions in the movie 'Working Girl' she proved that your hair had to be bigger than your shoulder-pads if you wanted to get ahead in business.
Were you the proud wearer of a Mullet? Or maybe you sported a 'Flock of Seagulls' back in the day, or a Phil Oakey (Human League), or a Princess Diana 'flick'? Whatever your memories of those Big Hair Days, be sure to preserve them as part of your legacy at SaveEveryStep.com.]]>Close Up on a Classic Toy - Clackers!!tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13873662012-03-29T07:00:44-04:002012-05-29T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/
Or, if you are from the US, Klackers.
Or, if you hail from Germany, Ker Bangers.
Or, if you are from some Eastern European place ending in 'grad', Popper-Knockers (oo, er, missus).
Remember them? The incredibly dangerous toy that every kid in the western world possessed? Think 'Conkers' but with two dangling, cherry-like balls on two strings joined at the top, made of sturdy, wrist-cracking glass.
Sadly, such a large proportion of the aforementioned western world succumbed to major eye injuries that the original glass version of the toy was banned, to be replaced by a plastic usurper. Bloody wusses.
This fine lady (who gives off the crafty impression that she may not have 'clacked' her knockers for many a good year), does an awesome impression of a world champ.
I never reached the heady heights of actual rotation. I aspired to be able to 'clack' whilst looking at my own backside, whilst undertaking the ' Super-Pro ' position. Awesome. It was not to be. I couldn't do an Underpass under my Underpass without the danger of my parents being hauled in for quizzing over heinous, inexplicable bruising.
Did anyone out there have the Clack Factor? Still got it? Or even better, care to prove it...?
Watch this space for more of these amazing insights into classic blasts from the past. Keep it here, folks. You can't buy this stuff you know.
Save your family memories on a chronological timeline at www.saveeverystep.com
]]>Letters Home from WWII: Posted to Bridlington!tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13751162012-03-23T10:33:57-04:002012-05-23T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/A bit of background
This emotional journey will revisit the stories of my Uncle Joe once again. I hope you will enjoy them, and think of your family as you read.
Joseph Henry Thompson was born in June 1925 in Birmingham, England. The eldest of four children, and brother of my father (dad being the youngest). I never knew him and my father hardly had the time before his tragic demise post-war at 22.
Joe 'joined up' to the RAF, along with thousands of other young men, in 1943 at the tender age of 18. He left his widowed Mother (my Nan) and 3 siblings and left for training in December, to Regent's Park, London, which is where these letters begin.
Letter 8 - Posted to Bridlington! 14th Jan 1944
Letter transcript:
"Last letter from here! Friday
Dear Mom
I received your Tuesday night letter today containing the 10/-. I've written to tell you about Aunt Em's present which I'm using now. Therefore I'm returning, with many thanks, your present, as I know it will be of far more use to you than it will be to me.
We leave here for a 'secret' destination at 11.15 tonight.
We parade in full Kit at 9, so that's two hours standing in our back-breaking outfit!!
I'm afraid I've not yet written to Aunt Lil and co. as I've had so many letters to write and so little time. I'm writing this against the Canteen wall during the morning break. Hence the bad writing.
We had our (Laundry?) today and it is a B--- mess too!
I was very surprised to hear of Uncle Horace's illness (Aunt Em wrote about it), he seemed OK Xmas and it seems to have got him quickly. Please express my sympathy to Aunt Alice by letter and I'll try to write later.
By the way we're going to Bridlington.
Must close as we parade in 10mins. Crikey they won't even give us our full break!
Cheerio.
Love to all, Joe.
P.S. Please excuse the writin'"
If you're a Mother, you'll read this with the pride and emotion that I feel. What a charming and unselfish boy to return the money his mother sent as a gift, knowing that she and his 3 brothers and sisters need it more....
Joe's full story is beautiful and tragic. He was our family hero. He IS our family hero. If I knew how to complete an effective RAF salute, I would salute you now, Joe. Long may your memory live in our family stories.
I hope to post a new letter from Joe's correspondence with his Mother here every Friday until they're done. It will be a turbulent and heart-wrenching journey. Subscribe to the Blog to make sure you don't miss any of it.
Other posts in this series:-
Letter 1 - 29 December 1943, arriving at Recruit Camp
Letter 2 - 31 December 1943, settling in
Letter 3 - 5th January 1944, confined to Barracks!
Letter 4 - 8th January 1944, meeting a boxing champ
Letter 5 - 10th January 1944, theft and wrongful punishment
Letter 6 - 13th January 1944, preparing to leave basic training camp
Letter 7 - 13th January 1944, high jinx and punishing schedules]]>'Blue' - Girl Guides revisitedtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13667382012-03-20T09:37:55-04:002012-05-20T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/
I noticed last week that the Girl Guide movement in the US were celebrating their 100th anniversary. Awesome. And then I remembered that I had IT.
I rummaged around my closet and found the hat. Then, a search was initiated for the shirt. Ransacked and spent, I emerged from the debris triumphant.
What next transpired gave me one of the best giggles I've had for some months.
For some unknown reason (all the more insane given the fact that I have not held the schoolgirl curves which I had at the age of 15 for some decades) I decided to try it on. Let's just say that it was more than a little snug.
I was caught in the act by my five-year-old son who immediately piped up, "Mom! Were you in the Army?!!" His reason for thinking thus was due, in no small part, to the fact that I was, at the moment he entered the room, taking a photograph of myself mid-'DibDibDob' salute. Em. Barrassing...
I decided to embrace the situation and a mini photoshoot followed, featuring me and my over-stretched buttons, mothballed hat, and small child, in various positions, attempting to find the
best angle to display my impressive arm full of badges.
I did find myself thinking that this ridiculous display of stupidity may have had something to do with the reason I never actually made it to Queen's Guide. That, and the fact that no 16-year-old girl in the mid 80s could possibly 'pull' a member of Duran Duran wearing a semi-military uniform and comfy shoes.
I promised, once upon a day, that I would do my best, do my duty to God and to the Queen, help other people and keep the Girl Guide Law. (I haven't even had to Google that - it's indelibly etched on my brain). I have tried to do my best in many things. I have failed miserably with God and her Majestical Majesty, and I can't even remember what the Girl Guide Law is. But I did keep Old Blue, and its memories are a valued part of my family stories to pass on to the next generation. You can see the appalling photos here...
I was also a Brownie. I think I peaked at the age of eight, as Sixer of the Pixies. Nuff said.
NOW, what are your memories of the Girl Guide movement?Join in and share!
More about the Life's a Journey weekly memories series.
Other posts in this series:-
Week 1 - My earliest baby photo
Week 2 - Old School Portrait
Week 3 - Earliest Writings
Week 4 - Bestest Friends
Week 5 - Teenage Crushes
Week 6 - First Movie Memories
Week 7 - The Song You Snogged Your Hand To
Week 8 - Homage to Grandparents
Week 9 - Favourite Childhood Books
Week 10 - Tying the Knot (again)]]>Letters Home from WWII. High jinx and punishing paradestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13542332012-03-16T15:36:22-04:002012-05-16T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/A bit of background
This emotional journey will revisit the stories of my Uncle Joe once again. I hope you will enjoy them, and think of your family as you read.
Joseph Henry Thompson (pictured below, left) was born in June 1925 in Birmingham, England. The eldest of 4 children, and brother of my father (dad being the youngest). I never knew him and my father hardly had the time before his tragic demise post-war at 22.
Joe 'joined up' to the RAF, along with thousands of other young men, in 1943 at the tender age of 18. He left his widowed Mother, my Nan and 3 siblings and left for training in December, to Regent's Park, London, which is where these letters begin.
Letter 7 Transcript- High jinx and punishing parades, 13th Jan 1944:
"Same. Tuesday, YMCA
Dear Mom and Kids,
I received (after much rigmarole) your very welcome parcel and letter. I would probably have got it on Friday or Saturday but as Sat and Sun are 'no mail' days it got held up. I posted that urgent appeal for 'financial help' on the Monday morning at 3am after coming off guard.
By the way is that 10/- a present from you or the last of mine? I'm very glad of those 'Genasprin' and the corn-plasters as both are very rare around here.
I had some good news this morning, that charge against me was dropped because of good conduct and a near bed space! I've still got to do those fatigues on Wed though!!
They've sent us all up the pole today, first we had drill for 2 hours then a lecture, then pay-book parade, then dinner. Straight after dinner Gas-Chamber tests at 'Lords' then a march back and then Kit inspection by the C.O. in person! Every single thing has to be folded in a special way and placed in a special position! This has to be done in 15 minutes, it sounds a long time I know, but when all shoes and boots have to be polished on the soles and the studs burnished and all webbing equipment taken to pieces and laid out properly it takes a lot of doing! Anyway we managed it, just about, but as soon as the officer had gone we were ordered to parade in full Kit in 10 mins!! I nearly had a pink fit! Nobody said anything and that takes some doing especially after what we'd just had. When eventually we got outside we were dismissed, the parade was cancelled! We've had some consolation though as we've been told that if we keep up to our present standard our flight will have been one of the best the station has had.
Some of the flights here have had 3 lots of C.B in 19 days. By the way, it's pretty well definite that we're being posted on Friday. Tell Joyce that I've been over a lot of London since I've been here, Whitehall, Westminster Abbey, Piccadilly (the Nuffield Club), the new Waterloo Bridge, Harringay Ice Rink (oh Boy!) and dozens of other places, too numerous to mention.
We're going to get a few laughs later on tonight!! One or two of us have sewn up the blankets of some of the chaps in our room and poured all their webbing and mess-tins into the bed to keep them comfortable! They might find a few springs missing out of their beds aswell!!!
Had my 'blood group' in my Pay-Book today, it's 40, most of us being the same. We've been issued with a big lecture book here for reference later on at the I.T.W. It contains such things as Hygiene, Navigation, Elementary Flying and pages on the Mark I and II 'Browning' machine guns.
Everybody in our room who knows of our gag is roaring with laughter at the thought of others when they get to bed tonight! Some will get that sinking feeling when they get in bed and most of their springs are missing!!
By the way we are allowed to send a few things to the Laundry:- 1 shirt, 2 collars, 1 vest, 1 pr socks, 3 hankies, 1 towel and 1 pr shorts (pants). You should see some of the attempts at sewing, it's just like fretwork and camouflage netting crossed with corrugated iron!
I must close now as this place is closing now and I'm stuck for words, so
Cheerio.
With love, Joe."
As I re-read this, my overwhelming feeling is that of instinctive motherhood - 'I hope he's not in trouble playing pranks.' 'I hope he's looking after himself ok.' 'He must be exhausted, I wish I could make him a cup of tea.' How those Mothers must have suffered during this awful time, knowing what was ahead for their young boys.
Joe's full story is beautiful and tragic. He was our family hero. He IS our family hero. If I knew how to complete an effective RAF salute, I would salute you now, Joe. Long may your memory live in our family stories.
Letter 1 - 29 December 1943, arriving at Recruit Camp
Letter 2 - 31 December 1943, settling in
Letter 3 - 5th January 1944, confined to Barracks!
Letter 4 - 8th January 1944, meeting a boxing champ
Letter 5 - 10th January 1944, theft and wrongful punishment
Letter 6 - 13th January 1944, preparing to leave basic training camp
]]>Letters Home from WWII, Letter 5, Jan 1944tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13413202012-03-13T09:17:57-04:002012-05-13T05:12:02-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/A bit of background
This emotional journey will take in the stories of my Uncle Joe. I hope you will enjoy reading his letters (the original versions of which can be found here), and think of your family as you read.
Joseph Henry Thompson was born in June 1925 in Birmingham, England. The eldest of 4 children, and brother of my father (dad being the youngest). I never knew him and my father hardly had the time before his tragic demise post-war at 22.
Joe 'joined up' to the RAF, along with thousands of other young men, in 1943 at the tender age of 18. He left his widowed Mother, my Nan and 3 siblings and left for training in December, to Regent's Park, London, which is where these letters begin.
Letter 5 - A bad week of theft and punishment
Letter transcript:
"Dear Mom and Kids,
Written in haste!
The sweetest things have happened to me the last two days! On Sat morning my drinking mug was bust on the way to breakfast. When I got back to Billets and came to look for my shaving brush (issue) it had disappeared.
On Sunday sometime after dinner my Knife, Fork, Spoon and the clip had also disappeared from a padlocked KitBag!
None of our room blokes were in during their spare time and of course I can't trace them.
I've got a reissue from the stores at a cost of 10/9! That leaves me with 2/4 in my pocket and 1/- of that will go on Tues, having a bath at the YMCA near here!
In other words, I'm in need of urgent financial support! So will you send when possible the other 10/- out of my draw please.
By the way, for 'losing' those articles I've got 5 hours cookhouse fatigues on Wednesday night! "This is the Air Force, Mr Jones!"
May get moved Friday.
Cheerio,
Love Joe."
Joe's full story is beautiful and tragic. He was our family hero. He IS our family hero. If I knew how to complete an effective RAF salute, I would salute you now, Joe. Long may your memory live in our family stories.
I hope to post a new letter from Joe's correspondence with his Mother here every Friday until they're done. It will be a turbulent and heart-wrenching journey. Subscribe to the Blog to make sure you don't miss any of it.
Other posts in this series:-
Letter 1 - 29 December 1943, arriving at Recruit Camp
Letter 2 - 31 December 1943, settling in
Letter 3 - 5th January 1944, confined to Barracks!
Letter 4 - 8th January 1944, meeting a boxing champ
]]>Homage to Grandparentstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13413132012-03-13T09:12:26-04:002012-05-13T05:12:02-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/"Grandmas hold our tiny hands for just a little while, but our hearts forever." ~Author Unknown
A moment this week to pay homage to those special 'extra' parents who mark our lives so deeply. Grandparents.
A Grandparent seems to be able to bridge that wide gap between the modern and the ancient. In our Grandparents we can see and hear History through their stories, and yet there they are right before us, as contemporaries.
I never knew either of my Grandfathers, but there were two amazing women who were a presence in my life as I grew up. My lovely Grandmothers, Olive and Lily. Two little beauties caught in my memory bank as if time stopped when I was 10 years old. They are young and full of life still, just as I remember them. Warm and safe.
My personal memories of my Grands....
1. Rolled up sleeves
2. Cleaning, always cleaning. Scrubbing drains - who does that?!
3. Whiskers on her chinny chin chin
4. Shrinking. Every year I got bigger and they got smaller
5. Summer holidays, two deck chairs and a wind-break. The omnipresent sandwich-making duo
6. Chrysanthemums in the garden
7. Tinned ham sandwiches and Sterilised milk custard
8. Playing cards with me and my brother
9. Stopping for a cup of tea. A lot.
10. A life of modesty and hardship concealed. 11 siblings each, war, loss, poverty and heart-break. All put aside whilst they dedicated themselves to their families and our future.
When Lil died, we discovered two things - a wedding photograph that we had never known to exist, and an engagement ring which she had kept in a box for over 60 years, unworn. I wondered why for a long time, but now I think I understand. Precious, not to be damaged, and frivolous for a woman whose hands were dedicated to scouring for hours each day.
I hope this has evoked a few good memories of your own Grandparents and their part in your Family Stories. Cherish them, do.
"My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She's ninety-seven now, and we don't know where the hell she is" ~Ellen DeGeneres
Week 7 - The Song You Snogged Your Hand To
]]>Life's a Journey: Week 5: Teenage Crushestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12594122012-02-07T07:37:16-05:002012-04-08T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/
But in case anyone I actually knew in 1978 is tuning in (unlikely, since no one who knows me would imagine there to be any items of remote interest in my past family stories), I shall pretend that I was a sensible, level-headed teenager who wasted no time on the fanciful imaginings of romance with handsome, unreachable mega-stars.
It began as early as the age of 12. I developed a terribly British (but rather unusual for a pre-teen girl) obsession with cricket. I never missed a Test Match. I knew the name of every player and every ridiculous player position ('deep silly mid-off' and the like). It was not the marvels of this historical game which had ignited my sudden sporting passion, however. In fact, it was not a sporting passion at all. Just a passion. Of the animal kind.
Ian Botham. 'Both', 'Beefy' or just plain 'Ian'. Who the Hell cared? Corrrrr. I am ashamed to say that I even sat and watched cricket with my dad, who naively believed we were having some 'dad/daughter time'. He watched the scoreboard whilst I watched Mr Botham's masterful strokes.
I kicked Ian in to touch when I first saw 'The Good, The Bad and the Ugly'. Now it was Clint. Oh, Clinty baby, what a dish you were! I hung a small but perfectly formed poster (probably cut out of some horrendous teen comic like Look-In) of Clint on my bedroom wall, directly behind my headboard. This was so I could kiss him goodnight full on the cold, papery lips. If this didn't suffice, I would use the back of my hand to practice snogging with him.
Clint, it seemed, was destined to be another's. And another's. And several more.
And then in 1978 I found John. Sadly, he never quite found me, but you can't win them all.
For most of my life I plunged these intense crushes deep into my memory, never sharing them. I suppose I thought I must be the only kid feeling this way. How many millions of other teens have done the same, I wonder? But Life's a Journey, right? We can't possibly go to our graves without sharing the memories of our passionate embraces.....
If this has re-kindled a memory for you, then do share it. Leave a comment and join in on the Blog
More about the Life's a Journey weekly memories series.]]>Letters Home for WWII, Letter 1 - 29 December 1943tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12495462012-02-02T09:28:48-05:002012-04-03T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/
He was born in Birmingham, England's second largest city, in a relatively poor neighbourhood. His father had died in 1941, leaving his Mother a widow and WWII raging.
Joe 'joined up', along with thousands of other young men, in 1943 at the tender age of 18. The RAF was his chosen destination, and he said goodbye to his family and left for training in December, which is where these letters begin.
Joe arrived at the Air Crew Receiving Centre in Regent's Park, London, to commence basic training. It seems clear that the excitement quickly turned to reality once the physical challenges of the training ahead became apparent.
Letter transcript:
"Dear Mom and Kids,
I got here ok at about 3 o'clock on Monday.
You must excuse my writing as I've first had two of those injections and may have another tomorrow or soon after. The ones I've had up to now have made us all feel groggy and our left and right muscles painful and stiff.
We've had all our kit - tunic, cap "with white piece in front", trousers, great-coat, kit-bag, all webbing (12 pieces), mess tin, water bottle, gas capes, gas mask, 1st aid pack, tin hat and net, shaving brush, boot and brass brushes, 'house-wife', knife, spoon, fork, one pair of boots, one pair of shoes, one pair of pumps, 2 pairs of gym shorts and some vests, 2 ordinary vests, 2 pairs of Aertex pants, pullover, scarf, 4 pairs socks, 3 shirts, 6 collars, tie, one rain-cape-cum-ground-sheet, and lots more odds and ends. We had to march TWO miles with that lot at 140 paces per minute!
The grub is a bit rough but it's all right. We're in some very 'posh' flats in Maida Vale. There are ELEVEN blokes in our room and they're all pretty decent fellas. We have arranged a rota for cleaning the room out. We scrubbed the floor and cleaned the windows today! I must pause now to go on parade...and to continue...
We've just had our swimming test also a blood-goading Parade. Blimey, my head aches! It's those injections!
We've been told we'll be here 19 days or so and then we may be posted to Whitny Bay or some other place I can't name. We've got another injection next week. By the way, I've just had a vaccination with the rest. Feel B------ awful!
The tailor is coming tomorrow to check out clothes. We parade each day at 5.30am and get to bed at 10pm if we're lucky!
Must leave now.
All my love,
Joe"
Joe's full story is beautiful and tragic. He was our family hero. He IS our family hero. If I knew how to complete an effective RAF salute, I would salute you now, Joe. Long may your memory live in our family stories.
I hope to post a new letter from Joe's correspondence with his Mother every Friday until they're done. It will be a turbulent and heart-wrenching journey. Subscribe to the Blog to make sure you don't miss any of it.]]>Life's a Journey - Week 2: The Old School Portraittag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12154342012-01-19T06:04:26-05:002012-03-20T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/My Earliest Baby Photo, this week we're taking a step forward a few years to those heady school days...
1974. Another miserably disappointing year for the eagerly awaited school portrait.
I was seven years old in the photo here, and my brother nine. This may have been the moment that prompted my mother to initiate a Twiggy-like hair crop which lasted for the remainder of my school days.
There are many more chronically tragic photographs which my parents handed over their hard-earned cash for. That's truly a show of love, don't you think? No matter how appalling the image, we will part with our actual money for the privilege of having it on our mantlepiece as part of our family stories.
God knows why, but in my father's lounge, some of these abominations are still sitting on faded show, almost 40 years later.
Next week we will shall be marking your old school work out of 10. Maybe you have an old exercise book, or a painting, or some kind of awesome model which you created in Primary school which your parents couldn't bring themselves to throw away? Get ready to share!!
About the 'Life's a Journey' family stories series.
Each Tuesday I will revisit a memory from some part or other of my life, and the idea is that you join in and do the same! Don't leave me exposed, man.
There will be moments of fun, moments of sadness, and probably some bad hair errors, but don't be put off.
Find out more about joining in with 'Life's a Journey' here.]]>Life's a Journey - Week 1: My Earliest Baby Phototag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12154262012-01-19T05:59:51-05:002012-03-20T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/
As you know by now, my obsession is the preservation of our family stories and memories for future generations. Our children are unlikely to ever ask us about our past until they themselves feel a sense of mortality, by which time it may well be too late, as I found to my cost. The photographs of my mother's early years may sit in their box, but they lack narrative and context which I am unable to provide since I was simply not there and now neither is she.
A determination to ensure that this doesn't happen to another generation has led me to this point. It is a parent's obligation to capture for safe-keeping the memories which we make with our children each and every day as they grow and learn. Our legacy for them, all laid out in pictures and words.
Each week I will revisit a memory from some part or other of my life, and the idea is that you join in and do the same! Don't leave me exposed, man.
There will be moments of fun, moments of sadness, and probably some bad hair errors, but don't be put off.
Enter your own memories into the fray via your blog or. if you like, just leave a comment and join in that way, but do join in.
I am throwing down the gauntlet this week with the first in the series:-
My Earliest Baby Photo
I believe I was about 5 days old in the photo here, taken in 1967.
I was born on the bed in the very same house in which my parents spent the almost 50 years of their marriage together until mum passed away. Dad still lives there now.
If mum were alive, there is an outside chance that she might be shouting, "That's a photo of your brother, you idiot." But since she can't really complain, I will go with it. It looks like me anyway...
I also recently found this rather moving letter which my dad wrote to me shortly after the birth of my youngest son. It still makes me weep buckets that my amazing but insular father could feel like this and never have told me... until just months after we lost mum. Amazing what a baby's birth can do to a man. I love you, dad.
Now, go and find that photo of yourself when you were just a tiny pink squidge in a blanket, post it to your blog and tell us something about it (or just share a baby-me story in the comments), then post a link to it here for us to find...
Please visit the other blogs on the list and leave a comment or two - it makes everyone's day!
]]>A Tatty Old Box Full of Memoriestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12154212012-01-19T05:55:35-05:002012-03-20T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/
Anyway, as I rifled my way through the things we no longer need with ruthless efficiency, I came across this. It was rammed inside a plastic bag (bag circa 1987 by the looks of it), its insides spilling out into the once-protective-but-now-essential bag.
This was my mother's Scrabble. It is the Scrabble board on which I learned the game. The board upon which my mother introduced me to her masterful word-play and grammatical dominance. The place where I came to understand the strategy of triple word scores and the biblical importance of the dictionary.
To me, this ridiculous shabby old box, replaceable in a heartbeat, signifies our annual camping holiday and Christmas. Each passing year would bring the same game but a fresh new set of vocabulary and higher score, until eventually I could hold my own against her magnificence.
I placed it in the charity box with a nonchalant shrug. "I really should get rid of this old thing, " I announced to my husband. He just gave me a look and said "OK, if you want to."
Today I have taken it out of the bag, photographed it and cried. It's a keeper.
In some small way, this tatty old board game is the reason I am writing this Blog today. Throw away a piece of my mother? How could I?]]>Unfortunate Family Incidents - The Doggy vs Dolly 'Face-Off'tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12154182012-01-19T05:54:05-05:002012-03-20T05:12:01-04:00Helen Spencerhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/helen-spencer/
I am an average 4 year old British girl, lover of all things pink, dolly-fashion-guru, and slightly shy, but since today is Christmas I am the happiest girl in the world.
My main Christmas 'box' is a corker - Barbara the doll, all magnificent with her silver hair and blue dress, and boy do I LOVE her. High-Five Santa (in truth we didn't have High-Fives in the UK in 1971. Heck, we didn't even have McDonalds).
Fast forward a few days. We have returned home from school to find my mother acting in a very suspicious manner. She looks nervy and is wringing her hands. Instinctively I know that I am to be the recipient of some awful news. Someone has surely died. Please let it not be Folly, the pet dog. No, here she is, looking awfully pleased with herself and in perfect health.
ME: Has someone died Mummy?
MUM: Ummmm, nnooo. But in a way, yes.
ME: Who is it?
MUM: I'm very sorry darling, but it's Barbara.
ME (already gasping for air): W-w-w-what happened to her?
MUM: Follyateherfaceoff
She said it very quickly just like that, all one word, as if she were removing a sticking plaster and trying to do it quickly so that it would hurt less.
The trauma of this moment has remained with me for 40 years. I had not realised this until I began writing our family stories, and I am now finding great solace in recalling the moment for you as a kind of crowd therapy.
My initial instinct to pray that Folly had not been the one who had died quickly did a swift about-turn, but thankfully our ill-feelings were eventually set aside when Sonia came into my life. She was a buxom auburn-haired replacement for Barbara, who was entirely done-for. There is not a plastic surgeon in Hollywood who could have sorted that face out.
Parenting is a journey full of testing moments. Childhood is a journey that can teach you how to be a good parent. I wonder what things our children will remember when we have made the transition from one to the other?
I'd love to hear about your 'Unfortunate Incidents' (Christmas or otherwise). Please share them here in the comments, or on our Facebook page.
Oh, and keep a weather eye on the family mutt this week.......]]>