Just being alive . . .

 

It's bread and jam and a pot of tea

With someone you love for company,

A fire for chilly nights, a chair,

And radio music sounding there;

A sense of home and familiar things

An old back porch where a cricket sings. 

  

Its not asking much, just a place to stay,

A quiet bed at the end of day,

A friend to drop in for a litle chat,

Gossiping over this and that;

A game of checkers or dominoes,

And a small wood fire that softly glows.

 

It's dreams in your heart, deep down inside,

Clean living, decent, a bit of pride

In the little town and the people there,

The church and the store that you sort of share,

The crazy sidewalk, the yew-tree's shade,

The little First-of-July parade. 

  

It's bread and butter and simple things,

Tears and laughter and wedding rings,

A birth in the house, a death next door,

Sunlight falling upon the floor;

A child to love when the day is done,

Just being alive . . . is such splendid fun.

~Edna Jaques 

As I copied this poem out here this morning my mind went back to a simpler time. A time when life was unfettered by social media, and the internet . . . when we only had two, maximum three channels on our television sets. When we had to get up to walk across the room to change the channel. When mornings were accompanied by the sound of local radio and the smell of burnt toast. When mother's chatted across laundry hanging on clotheslines and on Sundays, the air was pierced by the sound of church bells as everyone donned their Sunday-best and met together to worship in unity. 

When a story of tragedy was met with "What can we do for you." When you knew your neighbour's names, and their children's names and their parent's names, and theirs before theirs . . . with a line of continuity in the community which had travelled down through the generations . . . when elm trees arched over the streets and met in the middle . . .  

When you messed up at school, you knew you'd be in for it at home. When the words "Wait til your father gets home," meant something. When children had fathers and knew their names, and had grandparents and Aunts and Uncles and Cousins. When you went out the door in the morning and played all day only coming home and into the house for mealtimes and bedtime. 

When gameplay meant playing hide and seek and  red-rover and marbles and skipping and dodgeball, and all the kids in the neighbourhood played together beneath everyone's watchful eyes. When there were community picnics and Sunday school picnics.  When you could spend an hour sucking all the colour from your popsicle and then crunch on the ice left behind. There was always someone's mom who made homemade popsicles and the hardest thing you had to remember was to bring back the little plastic holder when you were done.  And we enjoyed cool-aid in coloured metal glasses. It was pure sugar and artifically flavoured and coloured, but no-one cared that it was. It was wet and refreshing.  

Bread and butter sprinkled with sugar. Sticks of rhubarb that made your cheeks ache.  Wild berries that stained your hands and your teeth. Catching grasshoppers and keeping them in a jar with holes punched into the lid with a nail and plenty of grass for them to eat. Wishing on a thousand dreams with one breath blown against fluff.  A yellow bloom beneath the chin determined whether you liked butter or not. Running barefoot through the grass.  It felt so cool beneath the toes. Carefree days, days of innocence. You fell into bed tired at the end of them. Time seemed to stand still. But before you knew it they were gone . . . 

We have many things to be grateful for these days. Instant communication at our fingertips. Untold entertainments. Timesaving gadgets. Widescreen televisions and more channels to watch than you can singularly cope with. We can sit and dine on food from China, and Italy and India and the Middle East. We can eat Strawberries in January.  All our apples come from afar . . . we never get to taste the ones grown in our own back yard . . .  they get shipped off to Timbuctoo. 

They call it progress, but is it really?  Somethings are better for sure, but many things . . .  I just miss and long for.  It was a simpler time, and in many ways it was the best of times . . .  but Edna's right. Its just great to be alive.

A thought to carry with you . . .  

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
 *Forgive others, 

not because they deserve it,

but because you deserve peace.

~jonathan lockwood huie•。★★ 。* 。 

 

In The English Kitchen today  . . .  Golden Syrup Puddings. Old-fashioned deliciousness.  

Have a great Sunday. No matter what you get up to, don't forget  . . . 

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And I do too!