Tears, teas and family trees

It started in Montana. The parents: a young British couple, making the endless trek way back in the late 1800s to midwest America, in search of prosperity from the mines.

One of the children born there, in 1892 was our grandma, Carrie. But her mum Annie and her siblings returned to the UK some time later, alone.

Fast forward to wartime London. Air raid sirens. Hiding in the shelter. The Blitz. Some of Carrie`s nine children being packed off to the country as evacuees, with their gas masks and ration books.

And to now. Just two of the nine remain. And at each funeral, like the special woodland burial for Joan yesterday, we gather and regroup, to say goodbye and to celebrate a life, taking comfort from each other. A ready made crowd: spouses and partners of those we`ve lost, and my generation, the cousins: more than twenty of us, some greying now; some resolutely not ; several reaching for reading glasses when it`s time for the next hymn; others singing from memory; defiantly spec-free. We`re there with our own children now; some, parents themselves: a new layer learning about the importance of family; keeping in touch, and being there for each other.

So,we hug, and weep a bit, and remember the family times we had together at Grandma`s house in Willesden Green; the practical jokes we played on each other; our fascination at being allowed to peep inside the mahogany, paper lined glove drawers at `Mildred Trimms`, the haberdashery shop Grandma used to work at, round the corner.

We`re scattered across three continents now. But the bond between us is strong. As we strolled back from the burial for tea yesterday, we mused glumly, for a moment, about what a sad year it had been for funerals--how hard it was to even try to recover from one, before we were back in black again.

Inevitably, we reasoned, the bigger the family, the more frequent the farewells will be. That`s the price you pay. But the bigger the family,the more plentiful the hugs will be too; and the stronger the support when it`s needed. There`s a ready made network of people you know you can, in a heartbeat, call on. Way more precious than anything you could mine in mid-west Montana, way back when. And much, much closer to home.

PS: When you lose someone, it`s not only sad, it`s a lost link to the past. And you realise that if you`re tracing your family history, the clock`s ticking a little faster.     Our family FB group`s been

buzzing since yesterday,many of us determined to find out more about our Montana connections before it`s too late.Who do we think we are? Not sure but tales are emerging of a Sheriff`s badge somewhere and the odd bar room brawl! Ever traced your family history? How did you get on? And is it time for `Who Do You Think You Are` to focus more on the `ordinary people`? Let me know what you think! 

Shrewsbury: wandering, and wondering. Can you help?

Spotted these sights during a wonderful five mile stroll from Frankwell, through the Shrewsbury Quarry Park and along the riverside walk towards Underdale yesterday. They say every picture tells a story. I wonder if you can shed any light on some of the questions I had in my mind as I took these photographs? (see below!). Thanks for stopping by!

Top row, left: I`d heard about these beautiful mosaics by pupils at the now closed Wakeman School. They`re now part of the Wakeman Trail. Made me wonder what the young artists who produced these are doing now. Let me know if you`re one of them!

Top row: I was nearly back at my car in Frankwell when I spotted a marrow and a painting on the pavement, as you do, outside the eclectic shop window of  Shrewsbury Words. I didn`t buy it as I still had a half mile or so to notch up. But, Sir...had you parted with your marrow by the morrow?

Top row: terraced houses by the Severn in the Quarry. What an enviable view you have. Do you get a free mooring when you move in here? Fabulous spot.

Top row, far right: a lovely plaque on a bench in the Dingle. It says: `The Dingle was her heaven`. I love that. There are many more plaques and plants of remembrance in and around the Quarry. One to PC Richard Gray, shot on duty in Shrewsbury in 2007. It stopped me in my tracks, recalling the horror of that day, and what a major story it was in our newsroom.

Third row: Shoemakers`Arbour plaque in the Dingle. So who knows about Shrewsbury`s connections with the Shoemakers` Guild? Please tell me more!

Also, that bench on the bottom row, along the riverside walk. Who was Ian? What a lovely gesture to remember him this way. Also on the bottom row--the graffiti `Don`t Give Up` along the same riverside path. Who wrote this--and what provoked it? I`m not a fan of graffiti, but this was a great message to choose!

Know anything? Like the pics? Drop me a quick email? I`d love to hear from you !: janemcintyre1@btinternet.com
Or Tweet me a message, or RT the link, on Twitter-- I`m  @janemcintyre12

Hope you like the other pics, too. The jogger was way ahead of me under the bridge with all the scaffolding under it; and she was going well. And the girl with the megaphone was belting out instructions to rowers alongside. Thanks to the two police officers who let me take their picture on the path too (That`s one great beat you have there, officers. How many miles do you reckon you clock up each day, by the way?) And thanks to Stop Coffee Shop for the lovely cappuccino I had before I headed home.

Turkey, Colombia, Italy, Ukraine....

....come IN please!

If the stats you`re given on your blog are to be believed, people have dropped by from these countries, and many more.

Were you one of them?  Are you in Poland, Taiwan, the USA or Germany? If so, thanks for calling and I hope you enjoyed whatever you read. But could you do me a quick favour? Wherever you are in the world, just to check that my stats research is working, could you say hello, and tell me a bit about yourself? Maybe if you have a blog, or you`re on Twitter, I could look at that, too?

You can leave a comment directly on the blog, or drop me an email: writerjane17@hotmail.com

Anyway. Hope your day is great, and thanks for visiting www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk

Postcard to the seaside

Dear Aberdovey,

I`m sending you this from Shrewsbury.

Much as I love you, I did, during my drizzly drive to see you yesterday, consider turning back. Or hopping out at the market in Machynlleth and not bothering with the beach.

But I persevered, knowing that I had waterproofs, walking boots and wellies in the car. Braced for `bracing`; I`d take you as I found you.

Just a few minutes and one meander more, I got that first, breathtaking glimpse of the estuary....and the sun was glinting on the water. A few more miles and I was driving slowly through your main street; crowds to the left of me; ice creams to the right. I was late on parade.

As someone used to enjoying your empty expanse of sand in icy midwinter; in gales, and best of all, in term time, I wondered whether I`d be walking, or weaving through windbreaks. The first stretch was filling up with families setting up base camp, clambering out of clothes, grabbing sneaky sausage rolls meant `for later`.

I kicked off my shoes and headed towards the water, gazing out at distant dinghies with Dairylea sails and cocktail stick masts. Past `Oi! Emma!`, and `Come on, Caspaahh!` and `Awww CHLO-WEeeeee....!` screaming at the sea as it touched their toes. On and on, to where the sand was smooth--just little sticky gulls`marks , a few tiny toddler prints, and deep, paw-shaped dents; dogs desperate to dash after sticks in the water ; shaking salty droplets over owners on the shore.

I looked back at the now tiny terrace of houses along the sea front; a higgledy cake-stand of sweet, fondant fancies,vying for selection. Way behind them, over the hills, huge, still uncertain clouds in Mr Whippy shaped swirls kept watch. I turned my back on them and walked towards the blue, the August sun hot and steady now, but cooled by a breeze brisk enough to keep kites aloft and the tiny sails proudly puffed.

Wiggling myself into a soft, sandy dip by the dunes I could watch families from a distance; playing, squabbling; screams and laughter muted by the whooshing whitenoise of sea and wind; each family a neat frame of film through my shades, all stars in a state of the art silent movie. I lay back; drifting, dozing.........until the rumble, then roar of a fighter jet pierced through my slumber and forced me to open my sun-blind eyes...metal scything through the blue-silk sky like a haberdasher`s blade.....its deafening dominance tempered by its tilt--incongruously coy.

It vanished; replaced by the soft whoosh of waves and wind again,willing me to be lulled back into my seaside snooze.

But that was my 4.30 alarm call. I`m wide awake enough to know that my ticket`s expired. I scramble to my feet and stumble back up the beach, fumbling in my pockets for what I wish were the keys to a seafront home of my own, not a baking hot car. Driving, I muse over how much fun it must be for locals to reclaim their sand, their sea and their silence .....once Caspahhh and Chlo-WEEee have headed home for their tea.

So that`s it. The end of my postcard from landlocked Shrewsbury to Aberdovey. Just to say thanks for a great day out. Loads of love; wish I was there, etc. And if it`s ok with you, I probably will be again, quite soon. Save me a fondant fancy, eh?

Fast Fiat,high heels; big bangs....

You can pay good money for a whistlestop tour of Rome in a Fiat 500, you know.

But here I was, travelling buckshee beside the petite Italian driver of this little white chariot; its horsepower whipped to the max on a hilly hairpin .

An hour before, I'd laughed at the plump Bellini elephant statue chosen for the start of our foodie themed walking tour, quickly rescheduled as other group members were delayed. That left guide Daniela and me--a Rome alone newbie. A walk together? Yes please.

The pace was brisk, with Daniela serving up stories on every square, street and statue; with a side order of good girlie gossip. Crazy cabbies? Reader, she married one. Zebra crossings where traffic never stops? The lines were more a `suggestion`. Those girls in heels on scooters?  So much easier than heels on cobbles.

We pause at the world's most improbable place for a cat sanctuary-- the temple ruins at Largo Argentina where, some say, Caesar was murdered. Scores of the city's feral felines are cared for and fed here. Our turn next : at the city's oldest produce market, Campo di Fiori --fresh fruit salads and sticky handshakes with Emanuale, fifty years a stallholder. We pose for pictures and a Japanese couple want shots with him too. Bewildered, he smiles again, and we leave him to box up his beans.

Next stop: the Tiber, for tales of torrential downpours and burst banks, then we're piling into her car, opening windows for a breath of breeze in this searing city heat. 'We should make it,' she says softly, before snapping, fortissimo, at the scooter rider on her blindside.

The road's steeper now; twisting. Summit reached; Daniela brakes sharply; ramming the car into reverse, one palm flat on the wheel, winding it this way and that: a snug Fiat fit.

`We're in time`, she beams, ushering me across the road to a low wall, watching with pride as I gasp, drinking in the most stunning panorama; the city's riches laid out like an emperor's banquet.

Pantheon, piazzas, monuments; churches ; only my guide knowing that in tre, due, uno, I'd be gasping again at the reason for her haste throughout my bespoke buzz around Rome--my big surprise: the deafening `BOOM` of cannon fire just metres below; a daily, high noon nudge to the battle here in 1849, when Garibaldi defeated the French.

The smoke fades; the show's over; mine too. Daniela has a lunchdate.

Fiat fired up, we speed back down to the city centre; now an angry bee swarm of blaring horns and buzzing scooters. Rome's getting tetchy; needs feeding.

'It's like lasagne, this city', she says, dark eyes darting about for one of the relatively few Metro stations in this ancient place. 'You know, in layers. You can't just dig more stations. You could damage something precious.'

But a red 'M' is in sight, so I scramble out into three angry lanes of snarling traffic; shouting a drowned out 'thankyou' to my new Italian friend.

I dive down the Metro steps, way below béchamel sauce level. And I'm sure, even with a Colosseum trip to come, that this tailor made morning that started alone, and ended up in a tiny Fiat with a real Roman…..is going to be hard to beat..

It's 2019 and I'm still travelling....now as part of www.2emptynesters.com . As far north as the Arctic Circle...and down to the south of New Zealand..with a crazy whizz round the world in just 57 days. Check it out!

Kick the bucketlist. Just do it.

Bucketlists are supposed to be a list of things you really long to do before you die, aren`t they? And sadly, you often see people with life-limiting illnesses setting out what they`d like to see or achieve once time starts ticking by extra fast. Some make it. Others just don`t beat the clock.

So..well..this.

February on Harlech beach. 

Don`t write a bucketlist. Don`t wait for the moment you`re told you might not make it to the Queen`s telegram. Don`t procrastinate until you`re too ill to travel, or until the long lost friend you meant to visit in Sydney has popped their clogs .Just do stuff now. Maybe it`s skydiving. Or running a marathon. Or something closer to home like walking Offa`s Dyke, or strolling along your favourite beach in the moonlight. Or going camping in your favourite beauty spot. Or saying `sod the chores` and going out for a picnic.

I don`t want to get too morose about this, but we all know people who`ve received shocking news about their health. People whose life, suddenly, turns a right-angle. It can happen to anyone.

I was found to have a pre-cancerous, high grade breast condition called DCIS three years ago. I had to have minor surgery, then three weeks` radiotherapy. They`d spotted it on a mammogram--a regular test because of my family history (Mum got breast cancer at 48 and died seven years later. Three of her sisters got it too--two also died, and one has survived into her eighties). It was scary, but they were pretty sure that after thwacking mine with that course of action, I`d be fine.

So it was a bit of a shock a few weeks ago, the day before Dad`s funeral actually, to get a call saying my most recent mammogram had shown little dots, possibly calcification spots, and they wanted me back in for a biopsy. I was already shattered about Dad, but parked the fear, put on a brave face and closed it all off until after the funeral. Then I started Googling what it could be, and found that if it was another bout of DCIS, or worse, they wouldn`t be able to offer radiotherapy to the same area. It could mean a mastectomy and possibly chemotherapy. So I kept quiet, had the biopsy under a local anaesthetic, (the team at the Princess Royal Hospital in Telford were truly fantastic; thanks Dr Walsh and the radiography ladies) went to Glastonbury (would have been on my bucketlist if I believed in them...) with backpack straps bashing my bruising, had fun, regardless, and 35 long, long days after the call from the hospital, went back to the clinic for the results.

All fine.

The dots really had been calcification, and everything was benign. I asked everyone to double check, including the registrar who examined me. When I got up to leave, still trembling, my heart sank as he said: `There`s just one more thing I need to tell you`. Here we go, I thought. `Your buttons are completely done up the wrong way,` he said. I decided it would be inappropriate to kiss a registrar while partially undressed (or fully dressed, for that matter,) so made myself decent, legged it down the corridor, bought a breast cancer fundraising badge in a blur, and sped home, weeping with relief most of the way.

I didn`t fancy bubbly, or balloons. Or celebrating, much. There was a clinic full of women with me that day, some of whom would be getting far less welcome news. I feel for them. And for everyone else I know right now who`s living with cancer. I don`t, and won`t, ever consider myself `out of the woods`, and I signed up on the spot to be in a clinical study which might, just, help others.

Juliet on a chilly day trip to Aberdovey

But it got me thinking about how, if the news had been different, it would be less easy to see the places I still want to see, because there`d have been treatment, and possible side effects.

I asked for voluntary redundancy from my job two years ago, for a couple of reasons.That decision bought and brought me freedom, and the chance to travel, relax, see the people I want to see, wipe out every bubble of work-related stress and focus on my priorities. So yes, I`m incredibly lucky, and I`m hoping to travel again soon, and treat my daughters to some trips, too.

It`s all well and good if you have spare cash to travel to those special places. If you don`t, there are cheaper ways to travel. Here are my top tips:

+I signed up with a house-swapping website (www.guardianhomeexchange.co.uk ). You need to pay your travel, but you can get free accommodation in the UK or further afield.

+List yourself as a house-sitter, and care for someone`s home and or their pets while they`re away, in a location you really want to visit (TrustedHousesitters.com).

+ If you fancy a weekend under canvas, but don`t have the kit, try Freegle (www.ilovefreegle.org) , and get a tent for free, or ask your friends (I have a leaky pop up tent from Glasto...but if the forecast is ok and you want to borrow it, just shout!)

+If you want to skydive or parachute jump, you might be able to sign up at a charity event, and get your kicks while raising cash. And if you`ve always longed to run a marathon, you probably can. Just start slowly, with help from a local running group (www.shropshire-shufflers.org) --and you might just cross that line in the Mall one day.

So that`s it really. No bucket to kick this week, I hope. No lists. But no procrastinating, either.

Badge from the fundraisers at PRH.

Sweet charity: who`d haggle?

Charity shops.

Some people moan about how many there are these days. But one thing`s for certain; they`re providing vital revenue for people, places and animals in need. And usually, a bargain for buyers.

So I was a bit surprised, and rather sad at a shop in Ludlow today, to hear two men haggling over the price of goods they wanted. One was after a decent suit, priced at £15. Another had been testing some binoculars. His offer got turned down. But the suit man, who asked more than once for a discount, eventually got the requested fiver knocked off his new whistle. He then turned round conspiratorially to me and said: `I never pay full price for anything.`

I was so embarrassed, I paid for the map I`d chosen. And then put the same amount in the collecting tin on the counter to make up for Mr Haggle`s shortfall.

And OK, haggling`s fair game in some places. Moroccan souks, for sure. Forecourts full of shiny new motors, maybe. But in charity shops, every penny counts. So when shelves are already full of low priced items and most staff are volunteers, isn`t haggling just a bit, well....mean?

It certainly surprised Amanda Evans when she started at the Shropshire Cat Rescue shop in Shrewsbury, one of two county shops the charity runs.

`I was amazed to see people asking for money off an item which was being sold for £1.50 or £1,`she said.
`But it happens every week, really and you get used to it. I still roll my eyes a bit sometimes, after the person`s left !`.

Shirley McCann is retail manager for Hope House Children`s Respite Hospice.

`Haggling`s not that common,` she told me.` But it does occur. We price goods according to what we think they`re worth.  If someone asks to pay less, we discuss it, hopefully over a bit of banter, and ultimately it`s down to the manager`s discretion. If the item is already priced low, then staff will stick to their guns.`

`People very kindly donate goods to us, to support the hospice,` she said, ` and we want to get a fair price for those items.`




So where do YOU draw the line? Is haggling just second nature for you, wherever you`re shopping? And if you`re in a charity shop, and you know you`re picking up a bargain--how often do you drop a couple of extra quid in the collecting tin on the counter, as a thankyou? I`d love to hear what you think--whether you`re a charity shop bargain hunter, or one of the army of volunteers behind the counter. Add a comment below, email jane@janemcintyre.co.uk , or tweet @janemcintyre12 . Thankyou!

Framed, cross stitch sampler (a charity shop gift for me today from my daughter)

ps. Like this? Try this!