charity, Uncategorized

Hope in Soap on a Rope ……

Some clever dick once wrote that women are from Venus and men are from Mars. I would never have believed this until the other day Husband when started speaking Martian. I couldn’t understand a word that came out of his mouth. I must have looked at him oddly because his Martian grew dialect and began to twist and and grow spikes. I still couldn’t understand him which made me frustrated, and before I knew it, I began to speak Venutian. Husband took to his cave. He has been there for a while now. He sometimes comes out to check we are all waiting outside, keeping vigil. He comes out to swing his club – his golf has improved I hear, or to cast a fly that lingers on the end of his rod tied on with an almost invisible yet extremely strong line of nylon. Last night he caught a fish.

I do believe that marriage is a road that sometimes runs out of tarmac. It happened to my sisters’ marriages. One day they were trundling along the marriage path way – bumpy in parts, exciting in others – enduring both fair and inclement weather and then, stop. No more road left for them to travel down. So they bid their spouse goodbye and ventured to new life pastures to graze on the leaves of liberation until, one day (for one of them) a new path appeared.

An unhappy marriage or one that ends is a nasty Earthen condition. So I busy myself finding material to make some harmonious and robust marriage road for the both of us. This isn’t the first time this has happened, so I go to my stock pile of hope and what-the-hell, to see what I can do. I don’t want things to end or even grow badly. I don’t want things to end at all. And I wonder maybe, it is best just to not want things to be nice and happy and harmonious? To stop wanting all things altogether might be one way of coping and accepting that things are, just the way they are. Maybe I should not want him to come out of his cave and leave him to his granite hollow.

This thought reminds me of a lady I once worked with, Gill. She didn’t want anything. I know this because one day, in work when I was dreaming up lessons and she was sharpening pencils, she told me that when she was younger her Quaker parents wouldn’t let her have anything. She had one toy and that was enough, She had one bike and that was enough. Her cousin had a horse that she could trot on so and that was enough. She had wanted other things to complete her childhood, like a tea set, a party dress or a stick, but no. Her parents refused everything and her ‘wanting and desiring’ for the silly little things drove her almost to distraction. She soothed herself by having the brilliant idea of just choosing not to want anything, ever again. And that is how she lived – until the day when there was a social gathering on the horizon. She had told me, she didn’t own a dress. I looked at her, “You don’t own a dress?” No, she said, she did not own and dress and she was very happy about that too. “What about a skirt?” I ask her. “You could wear a skirt for the social gathering in the calender that indicates making oneself look pretty and happy to be a part of the celebration.” And then she told me. “I don’t own a skirt!” I looked at her. “You don’t own a skirt? Not one?” And she replied in her best North Yorkshire chant of “noooooo”, this also insinuated that I should stop asking her questions. When she had finally exhaled her long and lingering negative affirmation, I pushed on and asked her in all seriousness, “Gill, if you don’t have a skirt, what do you wear when you do skipping?” She put down her clutch of pencils and pressed them hard into the table as she looked at me. “I don’t own a skirt, I don’t own a dress, and I don’t to do skipping!” she piped. And then put her face to her pencils, pushed her specs up her nose and hummed. I offered to take Gill shopping and then she, offended that I thought that she didn’t know how to shop, declared that she would shop for a skirt and that this would make us both happy. The following week, Gill skipped into the staff room swinging a bag on the end of her right index finger. Her hair had been washed and she was wearing a smile. She had bought a skirt, herself. A very expensive skirt. She went to the ladies and tried it on to show me, she lifted up her navy fleece jumper to expose the waste band and low and behold, the woman had a small waste and looking down her milky legs, I notice the most sculpted ankles. Gill! I declare – you have the most amazing legs! Are you sure you don’t do skipping? She did not. I will put money on the fact that Gill still has this one skirt, has never wanted to own another and still has not experienced the joy of one skip followed by another.

Reflecting on Gill, brings me to consider Kate Winslet. The famous Kate never stops wanting and never stops getting. Do you know, she has three wedding day albums and three children and three rooms filled with awards, that’s not to mention her time pieces. Where does she find the time for all these things, all these films, all these children and husbands, long dresses, wrist watches and awards? Does she spend her currency of time or waste it? Does she use her time to accumulate more experiences and things that stretch her existence in some way? And what about Kate’s stock pile of ‘hope and what-the-hell’ needed to build marriage road tarmac? Did she ever have a pile to begin with? Three marriages in, I’m not sure she did. I can’t decide.

I call Cousin John to discuss. Cousin John is the cousin of my late mother. Which makes me his second something or other. It’s a good thing to be, I have decided. He is the one of the few men who knows every word and verse to “In My Liverpool Home” and can sing sea shanties with the voice of an opera singer. He is diversity in socks. We talk on the phone. He tells me he has escaped his beloved Irene who is in the kitchen talking to her sister. He is on a bike ride and has just stopped at the meadow by the river Trent to lie in the grass and drink a secret can of Guinness. The sun is shining. Oh delicious, I tell him, cold Guinness in tall meadow grass. I like his choices. We discuss stressful situations. John deals with his stress by putting it in a drawer and forgetting about it. Like a wasp or an angry boss. If you ignore it, eventually it will go away. He tells me stories of his mother and my grandmother. They would visit each other every day and talk and talk and talk until – as a boy – he questioned them. Surely you can’t have anything else left to talk about because you are always together talking – what is there left to discuss? The sisters had lived through the second world war and the Battle of Britain when Hitler sent his planes over to Liverpool and bombed their chippy. They had everything to talk about and still would never be finished. I recalled the story of when Nana Lilian was having a date with the Norman she would marry when a bomb dropped in Bootle which sent John’s mum to the ground. She wasn’t far from where it fell and had been on her way home from work. When she got home she found Lil and Norm sat on the sofa, both with soot on their noses and their heads and shoulders from when the house had shook with the blast. They were still carrying on with their date. still on the sofa, still nibbling on sandwiches. Bomb or no bomb they carried on. This experience didn’t rock them. Not long after this they got married. I am glad they did. They were wonderful grandparents.

In Lockdown it helps to talk to wise family and see friendly faces. I see Mark and Ceri’s faces across the garden a couple of weeks ago. They seem calm if liberated by the whole lockdown experience. They have been given their daughter back from the clutches of school. She is free to prance with petals and puppies and skip into imaginary bubbles of fragrant playtime that can come and go with the clouds or when she decides and not be dictated to by the ticking clock of any establishment. She can rely on her own innocent whim. We discuss words, loved ones and blow outs. These friends are like flowers that stand socially distant on the grass and then leave with the evening breeze, taking their baby home with them. We are warmed by the glow of funny memories and the comfort that comes with sharing a page.

We have all been locked down now for weeks. Husband has actually been locked down since the 27th February which makes his cave dwelling understandable. He works from home, washes from home, digs his cave from home. No wonder he is speaking Martian. He is afraid of the Covid Curse – he saw how it floored me – and so I decide to help him. I start to by making soap that has messages in it like “Fuck off Covid 19” and “2 meters” and “stop the world I want to get off”. I hope that these soaps will cheer him up – contribute to the pile of ‘hope and what-the-hell’ to get him back on happy tracks and draw him out of his cave. Then I make some to cheer myself up, too. The lemon soap with a conker in is called, William the Conkerer. They all go to the isolation station. And then I attempt to make soap that has the message of hope that is attached to a rope. A tricky business, putting a message of hope in some soap attached to some rope, but I get there in the end. This inspires me to make some more Man Hands Moisturiser which is a hard moisture bar that Husband likes, but for this, I need more Bees Wax.

I don’t take bees wax from the hive in the garden because we are the worse bee keepers in Yorkshire – Husband and me – and every time we open the hive we have an argument. And yes, it is actually possible to have an argument over 40,000 angry bees, believe it or not who try and sting you for pissing them off – opening up their colony, dousing them in smoke and then stopping to bicker while they choke and panic. Thankfully these moments which also involve a few bee stings, are always short lived. So instead, we drive to see the Bee Man who sells me the expensive golden sweet fragrant wax, which he fetches from his own hives… no doubt in a calm experienced manner……… most likely without his wife. When we get to his house and out of the car I wear my mask. The Bee man laughs and leaves the wax on the wall for me to take. I hand over the money and ask him, “What are you laughing at, I didn’t laugh at your car registration plate I just noticed now on your van that reads B E E?” “You, you in your mask”, he says, “That’s what I am laughing at”. This is fair enough, it doesn’t suit me. And then he does that Yorkshireman thing. He delivers his opinion, like a rehearsed sermon with immovable faith. “Listen” he starts. I can’t not listen, this is a Yorkshireman with over fifty hives and an strong point of view. I adjust my mask and open my ears and nod for him to commence, which he does. “This Covid thing” he starts, “there are only a handful of cases ‘ere in North Yorkshire, in a population of over three HUNDRED – thousand and those that ‘ad it brought it up from London which is so disappointing….. (a pause here) But everyone has gone over the top, wi’ masks and gloves and all. It’s just madness. Over the top madness!” And he has finished. Quite a short sermon I feel. And to the point. Succinct, even. I nod. And blink. I want to tell him about the funerals I have been officiating, the brick in my chest that is finally dispersing after 9 weeks, our old friend Hugh who is in hospital for the second time with breathing problems, the fear my friend Louise had for her mum who had to battle the virus alone at home, aged 79, not to mention the pain and fear left with people I know as well as thousands of others I don’t, after losing loved ones too soon, knowing that they died alone. But I don’t. I don’t say a word. My mask helps. He can’t see my expression of WTF!!!! and so insteasd to the Bee Man I do say, “Thank you very much for the wax Mr Bee Man and goodbye to you!’ He is a Yorkshire man with an opinion. You have to leave them to it. Like a scouser with a joke, or a taxi driver with a life story, one mustn’t interrupt. I get back in the car.

Husband and I drive home past a kebab shop. We buy a dirty stinky greasy kebab and sit on the hill not far from the house in his car and talk about our children. He asks me, are you going to write about this moment in your next blog? How we sat and had a laugh and a beer together in the car and ate a dirty kebab, on a date. “I might do, I say. But what is so interesting about this?” But he is right, any thing nice is worth talking about. We eat kebab and talk about how we hope that one day soon, we might be feeling relaxed about things, we might be carefree and happy once again with family and friends filtering through the house. We hope this Virus will one day be gone for good. We hope that his mum will not get too depressed being in complete isolation in Wales. We hope my brother Steven doesn’t become ill while he is being shielded in Lancashire. We hope Hugh comes out of Southport hospital soon and is able to breathe easily, we hope Susan is coping with the death of her mother and the feelings of grief and despair. We hope that my chest X-ray will show nothing nasty. We hope I raise enough money to start Alison’s bereavement charity. We hope sister Becky will get through her divorce unscathed and once again travel on a happy track of love. We hope one day we will have forgotten to speak Martian and Venutian as it does us no good and as we look out over the hill to the dry quarry that sits in the lush landscape in front of us we hope that one day, all this will be something we remember with wise nods and knowing frowns. And as we know, hope is the last thing to die, we continue to hope and later we are reminded of the power of this little word as it sits in a soap suspended on a rope. The Beatles said that Love is All You Need, but I think that love is nothing without a little bit of hope, hope that the love keeps growing and that it doesn’t all come to an end, like a road that stops.

I am making lovely gift sets of bath bombs and soaps that can be bought for £14:99 and posted anywhere in the UK. Sets have the limited edition of Hope in the Soap on a Rope (because it is too good for the isolation station and I have only made six) so if you would like a bath or shower gift box donate at least £14.99 to my fund raiser and message me details of where you would like it to be posted to and any message you would like to include (Post in the UK) and I will send it for you. I have 47 days to go and still a lot to raise! And you see! Soap has its benefits! Let’s all hope I get there!

Thank you dears for reading my ramblings. I am still trying ever so hard to raise money so that I can start the Alison Bereavement Society Charity to support those who are bereft. If you feel generous right now, click on the linkety link and give us your money. Or tell your friends and they can give us theirs.

Now off you pop to be alert and socially distant and happy. Love your spouse, call your parents, send some flowers, stroke the faces of your children, tell those you love that you really do love them, say sorry for your wrong doings, forgive those who have hurt you and enjoy your time on planet Earth. And remember, hope is the last thing to die.

Until next time

Mary xxx


BLOG 6 – Brother Steven

Steven Caddick

A blog to help raise money for the Alison Bereavement Society

Well Sunday 5th April was a good day. I made it from the edge of the bed to the garden chair. Sat for a while covered in blankets and was driven out buy Husband in the car to look at the daffodils at the side of the road. I now know how it feels to be ninety nine a hundred. I also now know why the elderly don’t like to drive fast. Going fast in a car takes energy, just to hold yourself still as the car speeds around corners. This, believe it or not, makes you tired. I am not thankful for this knowledge.

How are you ? I hear you ask. Well let me tell you. One minute you feel normal and have a conversation with your sister who sends you videos of wild boar roaming the streets of Padova and the next minute you are in bed nursing an aching chest.

Also, I had made a promise to myself not to watch the news but curiosity got the better of me last night and I watched some. What a harrowing time for the world and its human occupants. I am so sorry for everyone.

The good news is that my fundraiser has now made £600! How good is that! Which means that when I get back on my feet I can keep fundraising and putting the money to good use. But don’t click on the link just yet, stay with me a while. I have a story.

            Not watching the news is a wonderful way of putting on ‘blinkers’ to help protect the mental health of the household. Everyone has imaginary blinkers, they shield you from seeing things that make you feel afraid. It’s up to you whether you put them on or not.

            Lots of horses wear blinkers, for good reason. Which reminds me of when a horse broke our house due to not wearing his blinkers. This happened a long time ago.

When I think back to my childhood, it is divided with a marker. The time before my brother Steven was hit by a car on the way to school, which left him physically and mentally disabled, and the time that came after my brother Steven was hit by car, on the way to school, which left him physically and mentally disabled. So life has always been divided with; before Steven’s accident and after Steven’s accident. BSA and ASA, if you like acronyms. I never use acronyms. 

            I can’t remember exactly when the horse broke our house, the precise date, but I was young and it was certainly after Steven’s accident. We lived in a red brick farm house surrounded by fields and stables, barns, and outbuildings and a huge riding school that had a heavy door that almost took sister Rebecca’s thumb off. It was the perfect place to bring up six children. Five girls and one boy, Steven.

He was a wonderful, kind brother. Steven. He was gentle and always up for a game of rolling down the hill or playing chase around the sofa. And when he got a scalextric set for Christmas, he let me share. He had big blue eyes and thick dark hair, olive skin and a wide smile.

It’s not easy to write about what happened to Steven that morning when his life was changed forever. I know there are some people who may be reading this and have by now closed the tab because they can’t face remembering what happened to his beautiful twelve year old body as it got thrown up into the air on the A59 and then found it’s way back to the road again. Head first. Whilst on his way to catch the school bus. He had been hit by an off duty police officer. He was on his way home in his own car.

I had been eating a hard boiled egg at the breakfast table and squashing the yolk into the toasted soldier with the back of my spoon when my sister Marianne ran through the kitchen door, looking up and crying to my dad. It’s Steven, she said. He is on the road.

My father, ran out of the house and vaulted over the stone wall putting his hands to the left and swinging his feet the right. I watched him through the kitchen window. He ran up the small lane that connected our home to the A59 dual carriage way in just his socks. I carried on eating my egg that stuck in my throat.

After the tears and crying with confusion in the kitchen I wandered off to find my sister Deborah with Marianne in our parents’ bedroom.

Did Steven have blood coming out of his ears Deborah asked Marianne? Did you see blood in his ears? Marianne cried. I think so, yes. I don’t know, I can’t be sure. I listened to them and played with a hairbrush that was sat on top of the white fireplace. Well, that means that he will probably be brain damaged, said Deborah. And when he was lying on the road were his eyes opened or closed? Did he blink? Asked Deborah. His eyes were closed said Marianne. Closed. Well that means he isn’t dead then, said Deb. How do you know that I asked her? I just do, she said, I saw it on the TV, if there is blood coming out of the ears it’s serious. But don’t you worry Mary, ok. Go and play. Go and play.

So I left the house, crossed the drive and went to talk to Paula in the tack room. She was so cool, Paula. She managed the livery stables. I told her whilst looking at the bright ribbons of the rosettes hanging against the dust on the white stable wall, my brother has been run over by a car.

I hope he is OK, she said. He will be fine I’m sure, she said. Do you know if he is ok, she asked?

I think he has a broken leg and blood in his ear, I reply. There is a box of Mars bars on the corner of the windowsill, left over from the last horse show. I want one.

Paula looked at me. She was only about 20. She drove a motorbike, wore a leather jacket with tassels, smoked thin rolled cigarettes and smelt of petunia oil. She stank. Do you want to help me mix the sugar beet and feed the horses? I looked at her narrow face, her silk straight dark hair and the minute silver stud in her nostril. I admired the cigarette smoke as it streamed thick and curling from her thin nose. Yes, ok, I said, and off we went to feed the horses.

The morning following Steven’s accident, the phone didn’t stop ringing. Was he alright, people asked? They had heard it on the news, they said. Was he dead, they asked? I heard my mum talk into the phone and she told them that he had died, and that he had been brought back. Resuscitated. This had happened to him twice. She kept saying, he’s a fighter. He’s a little fighter. He is so, so strong. And as soon as she replaced the receiver the phone would trill again. Ring ring ring ring…….

I would sit on the stairs picking at the wool carpet, out of sight and listen to my mother’s soft voice. We just have to keep praying, she said. We just have to keep praying that he will be pull through. He’s a fighter. She sounded so calm. She wasn’t racing around howling and throwing her arms in the air, as you might imagine one would on finding out their only son, not yet a teenager, has been hit by a car that has left him with a broken skull and shattered bones and been resuscitated, twice. No. She was calm.

And that was the day that put the marker in my childhood. All that was wonderful was now behind us.

Just like that, a whole world changed. Everything went from good to bad. Nothing was ever the same again. Not that I can really remember that much up until that point other than, riding bareback over stubble fields, skiing down a hill and laughing at my frozen gloves and watching my dad dig and build a swimming pool and engraving my name in the setting cement between two stone flags, on his instruction. Put your name and the date, Mary, he said. And I did. Mary Caddick I etched with a twig into the setting concrete, 1976. And Steven wrote his name, too. We all did, I think. That was the year of a fantastic heatwave and family and friends were getting tired of lying around in the field, so Dad built us all a pool to keep cool.

My brother Steven was in a coma for months and moved from Ormskirk to Alder Hey Children’s Hospital. I wasn’t allowed to go and see him or take him sweets. I wanted to see he was ok, now that he had come back from being dead, twice. But I wasn’t allowed. I missed him. When my nana Warburton went to see him in Ormskirk hospital, I was excited that she would come back with some happy news. But she just stood in the corner of the kitchen crying into her thin handkerchief. What’s up Nana I asked her? She looked at her sister, my Aunty Dot. Oh Dot, she said, his head was like a balloon.

A balloon, I think. That’s strange. I thought of my brother in a hospital bed and in place of his head and beautiful face, was a red balloon attached to his body. With a ribbon. That didn’t make much sense. I left them to their tears and embraces. And tried to figure it out. But I couldn’t.

A balloon?

When I finally got to visit my brother it was many months later – I don’t know how many -and he was in Alder Hey Children’s Hospital. I walked down a blue corridor and was so excited, I was going to see Steven. I saw two women walking towards us, both holding on to each other crying. It looked a very sad thing to see, two women crying together. Maybe they have got cancer, I thought. That must be what has made them both very sad at the very same time. I knew that cancer was something to be sad about, but that was all.

When I got to see Steven he was in a ward and he was awake. I never saw him in his coma. I never saw my dad put headphones to his ears and play him cassettes of harp music and another recorded tape of Liverpool football players who had all recorded messages of support and encouragement for Steven, to wake him up. Which had worked its magic. I got to see my brother only when he was up and awake and ready to face the world.

But when I looked at him he didn’t quite look back at me. I said hello and gave him a hug but he just dribbled. My mum was trying to feed him scrambled eggs. Hello Steven. Hello, it’s me Mary. I wanted him to look at me and smile but he didn’t. He sniffed as he tried to swallow some of his breakfast. I began to cry. This isn’t like him. He was changed. He was different. He had a huge white cast on his left leg and his arm was contracted to the side of his body in a spasm. He had suffered damage to his brain with the impact of his accident and his big blue eyes were sunken with dark shadows under them. My Aunty was there and she comforted me. I know it’s hard, she said, but he will get better. He has to learn to walk again. She took me outside. And talk? I asked her. He didn’t say, hello. Yes, she said, he has to learn to do everything, all over again. This was alarming and, this was the reality of the rest of his life. Damaged. Disabled. Altered. Hurt.

A few years later, when a horse broke our house, I wasn’t alarmed. The horse’s owner, a lady with comically thick face make up, who wore large tinted glasses which made her eyes look like they were swimming away from you, was the reason behind the catastrophe.  She had tacked her horse up to a trap in the stable yard, and was training it to get used to bearing the weight.

The thundering sound of the hooves that came galloping towards the house away from the yard as it tried to bolt from the contraption behind him, didn’t frighten me. It made me wonder what was going on but I wasn’t afraid. She followed the horse waving and screaming with her arms in the air.

And when the house shook with the impact of the carriage as it flung into the corner of the house where the washing machine was kept, and we heard snapping wood and neighing and bricks falling. That didn’t alarm me, either. No.

What frightened me was that the woman, who was a skilled horse person, who had been talking for months about introducing her beautiful bay horse to a trap, it was she, the owner of the four legged beast who almost brought down the side of the house, she, had forgotten to put the blinkers on him. That’s what had frightened me.

Blinkers first, then the rest of the tack and then the contraption to be pulled. Everyone knows that.

But she had forgotten to put them on.

That is what scared me the most. That one person can be so responsible for the destruction and pain and suffering of one animal, one side of the house. One young boy on his way to school. It just takes one person. One decision. One slip of the mind and all things can be altered. All things can change.

The blinkers that would have hidden the fact that the horse was physically attached to something would have prevented the horse bolting. The horse – I remember being told he was OK – I never saw again. But that was my mum telling me, that the horse was ok. The adult me today, can guess that the horse probably was not, ok. The blinkers would have saved the horse, too. For sure.

So, what is the point in all this? Well here it is.

We all have a lot of scary stuff behind us and sometimes it helps to apply our own emotional blinkers. You aren’t denying the bad things are there by using blinkers, you are merely channeling your focus and not paying attention to sadness in the past or fear in the present. It is ok to limit information that may frighten you and make you want to run, like a bay horse, into the side of a large red brick farmhouse. It’s the same when choosing not to watch the constant Coronavirus news bulletins. And don’t confuse blinkers with putting your head in the sand, it’s not the same thing. Blinkers can help. Burying your head is just daft.

I speak to my brother Steven most nights, he calls me from the Brain Rehabilitation Unit in Haydock, where he lives. His voice is soft like a pillow and as gentle as sable. It is low, slow and considered when he says, Hello Mary how are youuuu?

We talk about whether he has had a nice day? What he did. I went to Physio today, he purrs. Oh nice I say, I would love to go to physio. Would you, why? Because I have got an aching back from this bloody Coronavirus, Ste. I hope you haven’t got it. You haven’t really got it have you, Mary? No brother. I don’t have it. I just have an aching back and then we both say, Ahhhh and chuckle.

We talk about the weather, our sisters, what we had for dinner. Lots of things. I tell him I love him and speak to him tomorrow. He doesn’t have a cough and he is well. All is good in the world. And he is happy.

Don’t watch the news, I say, before I hang up. Ok, I won’t. Why not?

Because it’s just full of very scary stuff. Promise me you won’t watch the news. Put you blinkers on.

Blinkers? What are you talking about now Mary, and he laughs. Just take care I say and don’t watch the news. Ok, I won’t. He says. And then he calls my name, Hey, Mary!

Yes Steven.

 I’m going to go now ok, goodbye darling. Goodbye darling, I say. I love you, he says.

And I love you Steven Caddick.

Until next time readers. Blinkers on and, walk on.