When I was little, that's younger not smaller, my Mam and Dad always seemed to be either in the throes of an argument, starting one or not speaking after having one. When they had a row, my Mam would take herself off to the parlour and get her old Jones sewing machine out and make me clothes. Now, my Mam was a wonderful cook but a seamstress? nope, not on your Nellie. In the absence of fabric, she would root about and often ended up cutting up old curtains or a bedspread and fashion me something to wear. The resulting clothing bore no resemblance to the lovely frocks Julie Andrews made from curtains in The Sound of Music, if they had sleeves I ended up looking like I was on a slant, and had to lean to one side to move my arms, she never managed sleeves very well. On one occasion she decided to make me a beach tunic so I could wear it and not get sunburned. I am a redhead, I have never, ever done sun very well and always, but always end up a very bright red, if I was a colour on a paint chart in winter I would be Blue Flesh in summer Boiled Lobster. As a result, I never wore, yellow, pink or red, the candlewick bedspread she decided to make me a tunic from was yellow with weird peach coloured flowers. It had a hood, she called it a Pixie hood, hmm, more like the grim reaper wears pastel.
I had to stand while she measured me with a bit of wool and when it was finished, I had to wear it down the beach, the hood flopping down over my face, which wasn't a bad thing as it hid me from my friends. When they rowed it was pretty spectacular, my Mam would throw stuff, whatever was to hand, one time she threw a huge carving knife which all but parted my dad's hair and stuck in the door jab, he had to break the tip off to get it out. All this while my Granny sat and watched.
I should mention that my mother and Granny just didn't get on, this because my Dad was engaged to my Gran's friend's daughter, a good Welsh, Valley's girl who went to the local Methodist chapel. My mother was English and a Unitarian, my mother smoked, wore trousers and liked a drink, she was an ex WAAF who my dad met when he was a pilot in the RAF. My granny always spoke Welsh when my mother was around and as my Mam lived in my Gran's house while my dad went back to the RAF, it made for a very, very bad situation.
My Granny would sit there looking all horrified as my Mam threw stuff at my dad, he would erupt and call my Mam a witch and on it went. He would sit in the living room smoking on his pipe like a steam train and read the paper and she would be in the parlour sewing. My job was to act as a go between, taking messages and insults between the two. To be honest it drove me nuts, even at 6 years old I knew this was bonkers, but it is what they would do. At some point they made up and life would settle down for a few days, then off it would go again. It was like living in a room with a herd of cats.
My Mam would tell me how they had met, she was engaged to an American Pilot called Ernest from Philadelphia, they would go to the pub in Huntington and sit around a piano drinking warm beer and singing all the songs from then. My Mam also loved to dance, she would show me the jitterbug and tell me stories and it all sounded impossibly glamorous, even if she had to wear uniform as she was a WAAF plotter. The story she told me was that one night a crowd of British Pilots came into the pub, they didn't have the same money to splash about as the 'Yanks'. Mam would sneak them pints that had been bought for her by the Yanks and she noticed my Dad.
Photos from then show that he was very handsome, he was called Red as he had dark red hair and green, green eyes. he had noticed the not so beautiful WAAf who had a wicked sense of humour and who was always laughing, she had brown hair and piercing blue eyes. My Mam would say that they both knew that they had found The One, that she would never see Philadelphia with Ernest and that she wouldn't miss it.
My Dad and she began courting, I have telegrams from then that he sent asking her to meet him, 'under the clock' on Manchester station or by the Town Hall steps. On one he asks her to meet him and bring civvies, this wasn't allowed back then, but it is the same weekend they got married. Just them and a couple of witnesses dragged in off the street. They went back to camp and both put on jankers for going AWOL, they did jankers together and Mam spoke of it with a smile and a faraway, remembering look.
One of my most favourite times was after tea on a Sunday, we would have ham, salad, cheese in a triangular shaped cheese dome, a funny knife for the cheese, chocolate cake, freshly made bread rolls, scones and jelly. Once it was all cleared away we sat and listened to the radio, all the old songs and they would talk. I always felt that at those times they were themselves, not Mam and Dad, but Maggie and Red and they would tell such funny tales of their courtship, the mad, bad things they did and they would laugh like drains. I wouldn't speak incase they remembered they were Mam and Dad. I loved Maggie and Red, they loved Maggie and Red and I was so, so sad when they remembered they were Mam and Dad with all the worries and problems that they had.
My Mam never glammed up like some of my friend's mothers, she was always in a wrap around pinny, her hair in curlers under her turban. The only time I saw her dressed up was when they went to vote, they never missed a voting day. My Mam would wear a black skirt with bright flowers on it, a white blouse and some platform shoes from the 1940's, her hair in the same style she had when she was younger, her only make up some bright red lipstick that she had to use a hairclip to get at and foundation.
My mother had a really bad menopause, she used to act like a crazy person, shouting and yelling, hitting me until my legs burned. At times she would cry about her wrinkled face and neck, her hands were always manicured and she had the best hands and nails I had and have ever seen. One time I decided I needed to have a word with my Dad about his seemingly lack of anything resembling romance. Now, what you have to understand is I got my ideas of romance from watching far too many Doris Day and Cary Grant movies on a Sunday afternoon. Doris Day wore a frilly penny, had immaculate hair and red lipstick, she looked beautiful and sang about finding her perfect love and all that. Cary Grant and she would meet, have a few rows then they would discover that their perfect love was under their noses all the time. I didn't equate rowing about everything, calling each other names and no kissing, as my parents did, as anything resembling love. I also had a word with my mother. The result? a new beige raincoat and, for some reason, a dark brown wig.
The wig wasn't cut or styled, it came from a Sunday supplement, the same one my dad bought her weird snowshoes from. It sat on her head like a curled up cat. But, she got all dressed up as it was election time and they were off to vote, my Dad put his spivvy suit on, a bright yellow and red tie and his brothel creepers as he called them. Mum came in and my Dad looked totally gobsmacked, poor Mum looked like a cut price Mata Hari, he laughed, he called her Columbo and she ran upstairs and flung the wig and cried. I remember shouting at my Dad and going up to her while she wept for the Maggie she was and the Mum she had become. Once she had dried her eyes and came downstairs looking more like Mum, dad, for the very first and only time I had seen, tucked her arm under his, kissed her cheek and said she looked lovely and that he was sorry he forgot to tell her, but to him, she hadn't changed and was always lovely.
I think it was then I I finally understood, that it isn't the Doris Day moments that make a love story. It isn't the empty gestures, having diamonds as gifts cannot make up for the times spent alone. Love is best tested when it is on its arse, when it is at its lowest and walking away would be easier. It is loving someone at their worse, otherwise how can anyone think they deserve someone at their best. Maggie and Red had become Mum and Dad, but were still always Maggie and Red and they still loved even if it wasn't always a calm sea, they were both hurricane types anyway and would have found a calm see unsparingly boring.
They had just another old fashioned love story, I have the telegrams to show, they are simply signed Taff x My Dad died quite young at 55 yrs old, My Mum at 70, me and she would still sit and talk about their glory days and I never tired of hearing them and she still shone when she spoke about them. We should all hope for such love.
I had to stand while she measured me with a bit of wool and when it was finished, I had to wear it down the beach, the hood flopping down over my face, which wasn't a bad thing as it hid me from my friends. When they rowed it was pretty spectacular, my Mam would throw stuff, whatever was to hand, one time she threw a huge carving knife which all but parted my dad's hair and stuck in the door jab, he had to break the tip off to get it out. All this while my Granny sat and watched.
I should mention that my mother and Granny just didn't get on, this because my Dad was engaged to my Gran's friend's daughter, a good Welsh, Valley's girl who went to the local Methodist chapel. My mother was English and a Unitarian, my mother smoked, wore trousers and liked a drink, she was an ex WAAF who my dad met when he was a pilot in the RAF. My granny always spoke Welsh when my mother was around and as my Mam lived in my Gran's house while my dad went back to the RAF, it made for a very, very bad situation.
My Granny would sit there looking all horrified as my Mam threw stuff at my dad, he would erupt and call my Mam a witch and on it went. He would sit in the living room smoking on his pipe like a steam train and read the paper and she would be in the parlour sewing. My job was to act as a go between, taking messages and insults between the two. To be honest it drove me nuts, even at 6 years old I knew this was bonkers, but it is what they would do. At some point they made up and life would settle down for a few days, then off it would go again. It was like living in a room with a herd of cats.
My Mam would tell me how they had met, she was engaged to an American Pilot called Ernest from Philadelphia, they would go to the pub in Huntington and sit around a piano drinking warm beer and singing all the songs from then. My Mam also loved to dance, she would show me the jitterbug and tell me stories and it all sounded impossibly glamorous, even if she had to wear uniform as she was a WAAF plotter. The story she told me was that one night a crowd of British Pilots came into the pub, they didn't have the same money to splash about as the 'Yanks'. Mam would sneak them pints that had been bought for her by the Yanks and she noticed my Dad.
Photos from then show that he was very handsome, he was called Red as he had dark red hair and green, green eyes. he had noticed the not so beautiful WAAf who had a wicked sense of humour and who was always laughing, she had brown hair and piercing blue eyes. My Mam would say that they both knew that they had found The One, that she would never see Philadelphia with Ernest and that she wouldn't miss it.
My Dad and she began courting, I have telegrams from then that he sent asking her to meet him, 'under the clock' on Manchester station or by the Town Hall steps. On one he asks her to meet him and bring civvies, this wasn't allowed back then, but it is the same weekend they got married. Just them and a couple of witnesses dragged in off the street. They went back to camp and both put on jankers for going AWOL, they did jankers together and Mam spoke of it with a smile and a faraway, remembering look.
One of my most favourite times was after tea on a Sunday, we would have ham, salad, cheese in a triangular shaped cheese dome, a funny knife for the cheese, chocolate cake, freshly made bread rolls, scones and jelly. Once it was all cleared away we sat and listened to the radio, all the old songs and they would talk. I always felt that at those times they were themselves, not Mam and Dad, but Maggie and Red and they would tell such funny tales of their courtship, the mad, bad things they did and they would laugh like drains. I wouldn't speak incase they remembered they were Mam and Dad. I loved Maggie and Red, they loved Maggie and Red and I was so, so sad when they remembered they were Mam and Dad with all the worries and problems that they had.
My Mam never glammed up like some of my friend's mothers, she was always in a wrap around pinny, her hair in curlers under her turban. The only time I saw her dressed up was when they went to vote, they never missed a voting day. My Mam would wear a black skirt with bright flowers on it, a white blouse and some platform shoes from the 1940's, her hair in the same style she had when she was younger, her only make up some bright red lipstick that she had to use a hairclip to get at and foundation.
My mother had a really bad menopause, she used to act like a crazy person, shouting and yelling, hitting me until my legs burned. At times she would cry about her wrinkled face and neck, her hands were always manicured and she had the best hands and nails I had and have ever seen. One time I decided I needed to have a word with my Dad about his seemingly lack of anything resembling romance. Now, what you have to understand is I got my ideas of romance from watching far too many Doris Day and Cary Grant movies on a Sunday afternoon. Doris Day wore a frilly penny, had immaculate hair and red lipstick, she looked beautiful and sang about finding her perfect love and all that. Cary Grant and she would meet, have a few rows then they would discover that their perfect love was under their noses all the time. I didn't equate rowing about everything, calling each other names and no kissing, as my parents did, as anything resembling love. I also had a word with my mother. The result? a new beige raincoat and, for some reason, a dark brown wig.
The wig wasn't cut or styled, it came from a Sunday supplement, the same one my dad bought her weird snowshoes from. It sat on her head like a curled up cat. But, she got all dressed up as it was election time and they were off to vote, my Dad put his spivvy suit on, a bright yellow and red tie and his brothel creepers as he called them. Mum came in and my Dad looked totally gobsmacked, poor Mum looked like a cut price Mata Hari, he laughed, he called her Columbo and she ran upstairs and flung the wig and cried. I remember shouting at my Dad and going up to her while she wept for the Maggie she was and the Mum she had become. Once she had dried her eyes and came downstairs looking more like Mum, dad, for the very first and only time I had seen, tucked her arm under his, kissed her cheek and said she looked lovely and that he was sorry he forgot to tell her, but to him, she hadn't changed and was always lovely.
I think it was then I I finally understood, that it isn't the Doris Day moments that make a love story. It isn't the empty gestures, having diamonds as gifts cannot make up for the times spent alone. Love is best tested when it is on its arse, when it is at its lowest and walking away would be easier. It is loving someone at their worse, otherwise how can anyone think they deserve someone at their best. Maggie and Red had become Mum and Dad, but were still always Maggie and Red and they still loved even if it wasn't always a calm sea, they were both hurricane types anyway and would have found a calm see unsparingly boring.
They had just another old fashioned love story, I have the telegrams to show, they are simply signed Taff x My Dad died quite young at 55 yrs old, My Mum at 70, me and she would still sit and talk about their glory days and I never tired of hearing them and she still shone when she spoke about them. We should all hope for such love.
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