227. Merely Players.

Stella was my friend Dorothy's younger sister and, at the time, of no account! (Sorry, Stella!) Now she writes to me on an equal (elderly) footing and she has come by the delicious surname 'Heritage' through marriage. The other day she sent me a copy of this long-forgotten photograph and she has stirred-up memories. Thank you Stella.

MERELY PLAYERS

So is it sixty years ago

 That we strutted on the stage

In another hemisphere and place,

 Another distant age?

The play was 'Idle Jack' I think;

 We were in the Village Hall.

And the fact that none of us could act

Didn't worry us at all!

We sang the hit songs of the day;

'Near You' I think was one.

And 'Anything You Can Do' comes to mind;

 Singing that was fun.

Here I am as Idle Jack,

 The Charlie Chaplin type;

I don't think the plot was up to much,

 Probably pure tripe!

Jean, on the left, was rather sweet;

 She became a Beauty Queen.

I've no idea where she went then;

 She just faded from my scene.

Dorothy, pleading on her knees,

 Had a family of seven

And now she's living out her days

 Idyllically in Devon.

Margaret, the wizard, looks quite dour

 But was really very pleasant.

She, too, lives in Australia,

 In Victoria, at present.

How did we see our futures then,

 When we were seventeen?

Are we all happy with our lot

 Thinking back to where we've been?

'Life is a stage' that's very true,

 And we are merely players.

Are we over-seen by Fate

As suggested by soothsayers?

Now that the play is nearly done

 And we're running out of time

Do you see your lives as opera,

 Or, like me, as pantomime?

P.S Yucky Ducks!

Isn't this too tacky for words! A very plastic Nativity!

YUCKY DUCKS!

Quack! Quack! Quack!

The last word in tack!

Geese

MAFFICK MONDAY
http://maffickmonday.blogspot.com/2011/07/maffick-monday-3.html
asks the question
'What if Birds Ruled the World?'

The more I learn about birds the more I realise that the insulting term 'bird-brain' is not deserved.

GEESE

Witness the Goose! It flaps its wings

And makes an upward draft.

The stronger birds are forward,

The weaker ones are aft.

And so the group flies strongly on

With energy and persistence,

Because the leaders know that they

Must lessen the resistance.

The moral is we fly the best

When we're helping one another.

As Simon and Garfunkle said....

'He ain't heavy, he's my brother.'

White Rabbit!

The rather strange routine described below was an essential part of my childhood years!

WHITE RABBIT!

'White Rabbit! White Rabbit! White Rabbit!' Three times to make sure!

I'd lie there stiff as a poker gazing at my bedroom door.

On the very first day of every month those strange words must be said.

The room was pervaded with magic as I waited in my bed.

Would my mother forget to say them, those words of immense portent?

If she did, my goodness, what punishments would be sent?

If we didn't say 'White Rabbit' as soon as we awoke;

If those magical words 'White Rabbit!' were not the first we spoke

The most terrible fate awaited us; there was nothing we could do!

We'd be buffeted by misfortune until the month was through.

In the morning I'd awaken and I would hold my breath;

The strength of the tradition scared me half to death!

Supposing she said 'Wake up, dear'! We'd be doomed for thirty days!

The Rabbit was supernatural and had very nasty ways!

We'd remind each other the night before; 'Watch out!' and 'Don't forget!'

Luckily we were careful and we hadn't forgotten yet!

But there'd be floods and famine if those magic words weren't spoken;

The flowers would die, the roof cave in and every cup be broken!

My bedroom door was opening! My  mother was coming in!

'White Rabbits!' we cried in unison!

Another month could begin.


Note: White hares were supposed to be 'familiars' of Witches in early Britain; 'White Rabbits' are said to have been guilty by association!

Family Group

                                                                                          Jean Frederic Bazille

FAMILY GROUP

Jean Frederic Bazille

 Was an artist of renown.

He could capture something fleeting,

And, forever, set it down.

He could copy folds of fabric

As they flowed around a form;

He could intimate that distant clouds

Were heralding a storm.

He could make scenes last for ever

Lke this one beneath the tree;

This Family Reunion 

Will survive eternity.

He could copy the expressions 

On each stern Victorian face;

He could etch it in our memory,

This scene, this time, this place.

But I fear there's something missing

Of quite a different sort,

For Jean Frederic could never

Immortalize a thought.

What are these people thinking?

Can we make a guess?

For certain they are not like us

In manner, speech or dress;

But humanity's unchanging

Or so it seems to me,

So let us listen-in a while

To the thoughts beneath the tree!

Two gentlemen have just arrived

But they don't intend to stay.

Thinks Jack 'I hope they're not aware

That Fred and I are gay!'

Thinks Fred 'I fear Jack's not my class!'

He's worn a business suit!

This is the end! Next Saturday

I'm giving him the boot!'

Auntie Maude, all corsetted,

Wearing her Spanish shawl

Thinks 'Who has thrown their hat down there?
That won't do at all!'

While Uncle Dan, who's gazing

Rather blankly into space

Thinks ' I love my mistress, little Tess,

But can I stand the pace?'

Ermintrude and George are there

Standing stiffly at the back.

They'd like to let their hair down

But chairs are what they lack.

Thinks Ermintrude 'They ask us here

 Then don't supply the seating!

This is the last time I'll attend

A stupid family meeting!'

Thinks George 'She's hanging on my arm 

Like a positive dead-weight!

I'm off to France on Tuesday

And I can hardly wait!'

Poor old Constance, sitting there,

All droopy by herself,

Thinks 'What now will become of me? 

I'm really on the shelf!'

And see the Twins, both dressed in blue,

Alice and Beth by name,

Both of them thinking 'Wretched Mum!

Making us dress the same!'

Finally there's Algernon, 

Sidling up to Rose

Who's looking rather virginal

With a prim and proper pose.

Thinks Rose ' If he keeps on like this,

Pressing me with his knee,

I'll find myself responding

And everyone will see!'

Thinks Algernon 'I'll keep this up

Though it may be over-zealous.

I'm only teasing darling Beth,

Trying to make her jealous!'

The thoughts float in the ether;
Like clouds they'll soon disperse
Unless some Philistine lady
Turns them into verse!

Artist Jean Frederic Bazille

Painted what he could see!

But he simply couldn't paint a thought!

He left that up to me!

Nothing Could be Finer.

Newcastle. New South Wales. Australia

SUNDAYS IN MY CITY

To the tune 'Carolina"
NOTHING COULD BE FINER!

We live in a a certain place

That puts a smile on every face

We know it.

We live in a certain town

Where nothing ever gets you down,

So show it.

Boulevards are rising

By the riverside.

People exercising

Echo the city's pride.

We live in a town with charms

That's very far from War's alarms.

Preserve it.

We live in a town with sights

That constantly bring us delights

Conserve it.

If I had Aladdin's Lamp for only a day

I'd change the world the Newcastle way.

Nothing gives such pleasure

As the city that we treasure!

Let's deserve it!

222. Tootle Rock.

Several times I have mentioned Alton, in Staffordshire, where I spent my teenage years. It really was quite a magical place, with the grand house, Alton Towers, hidden among the trees, and the Castle, towering over the valley. But there were other, lesser, atmospheric delights.

 'Tootle Rock' was one of them.

The photograph depicts a canon such as the Roundheads used, during the Civil War.

TOOTLE ROCK. 

They called it 'Tootle Rock' for the words slipped off the tongue,

But it was known as Toot Hill in the days when the world was young.

A flat rock jutted out above the valley far below,

In a way that urged me to take a stone and give it a mighty throw!

I listened for the falling, and, finally came the thud,

As it landed far below me, 'plop!', down in the river's mud.

I pretended I was Icarus, though I didn't dare to fly!

I felt so poised, so elevated, free and young and high.

They told me of the legend that added to its charms;

How Oliver Cromwell came there in the days when he took up arms.

How the Roundheads perched their canon exactly where I sat,

Above the river on a rock that was firm and table-flat.

Someone showed me indentations that, surely, the canon made,

And I felt I heard the warlike cries and I saw a flash of blade!

What a way to learn of history! Even if the tale were false?

It was the 'feel' that mattered, more than any history course.