Reminiscing…

...for Knots in the String

Those in the know say we should only ever live in the moment, neither looking back nor forward. And whilst I would mostly agree, I value reminiscence, so as I walked the beach today solo (whilst OH babysat the pup who was asleep), I thought of the bank of memories I have catalogued. In my mind and being of an age, they are in large wooden catalogue drawers, under headings of age, experiences, and then a card for every memory. I pull the drawers open by their handles, the metal having an aged, dull patina (bit like me just now as I navigate puppyhood!). They slide smoothly after years of being used and there’s a musty aroma of old paper, maybe vellum because I like vellum, the cards a little bent and worn after frequent extraction.

Some of course, the awful experiences – a breakup with a boyfriend, a panic attack, nearly being swept out to sea in a rip, painful losses – those sorts of things I would prefer not to recall. I wish I could burn them, expunge them from my life and yet as a writer, every single experience is a nugget of gold for adding nuance to a story. The memory would have been transcribed onto a fine vellum card, handwritten but with inkspots from a shaky hand.

I reminisce about my childhood swimming days. Of the old green boat moored in the river and whose anchor chain we would climb to then sit on its scrappy, peeling decks, or down below on mouldy, dank ticking mattresses. We would play spin-the-bottle, the boys might smoke. That was about the limit of our misdemeanours. We would have more fun diving from the gunwhales, climbing the chain and diving again. We would dive beneath the hull, dangerous when you think about it, but such fun.

I recall the old diving pontoon, erected by the Progress Association of which my grandfather was a founding member. It’s where I learned to dive when I was seven or eight. We would swim out, climb the wooden steps to the first level, invariably with blood coursing down from a splinter on our shins. Doodie Sorell was so patient with me. A lot older, she’d instruct me to curl my toes over the edge, keeping my legs straight and knees together, clasping one hand over the other and pointing them at the water. Her arm would be in front of my knees so that I would have to elevate to leave the platform. Then she would shout Go! and I would begin to leap up, over and down. She would call after me, Point your toes! And in a couple of days, I had it down pat. There was another platform above the beginners’ level and it wasn’t long before we were all diving from that as well. Good times!

Thus I see reminiscence as something that can make one feel happy and content. Remembering the good times when the bad times have the capacity to excoriate our souls. I still live in the moment, being mindful, but I value the memories which now seem to have extra importance as my grandson asks me about the ‘old days’.

Doing:

Oh my God! Nothing!

Beyond nurturing a pup and fending off sharks’ teeth and Scissorhand claws. He’s not mean, he’s just a teething pup who needs to chew on anything! I feel the pinprick and take no notice until blood runs. I’m a bit of a bleeder, you see.

I think the last time I wore decent clothes was to my friend, Pan’s 80^th, a month ago, and since then, it’s been recycling old coastal shorts and shoes daily. Or maybe the pup recycles them for us. We’re choosing to conk out when the Young Terrier does, or if I’m lucky and OH isn’t on conference calls, I can do a 45-minute walk and a 10 minute swim. Now there’s a reminiscence! I remember the days when I could swim whenever and for as long as I liked. Ha! Thanks to the Womble, those days are done for awhile.

Still, he slept for 7 hours between 8PM and 3 AM without needing to pee last night. He’s settling straight after peeing, which is a total blessing and today he actually went to the back door so that he could go out and pee. We’re slowly learning leash-walking, the recall command and sit, not in that order. OH and self are learning that we can navigate life asleep - at least that’s how it feels most days.

We haven’t watched TV for an age. I barely read 2 lines on the Kindle before I crash at night which is making for a very disjointed reading of Instant Karma by David Michie, a book which prior to Puppageddon, I was enjoying.

I watch the Southend Dog Training reels (suggested by Everyone Else is Taken)

and my fave stylist, the Monday Project Co (who encouraged me to buy a silky-knit red Cue T-shirt which I LOVE), and today I caught up on a fab new Substack.

Pip is Australian and writes the way I wish I could write – with Gorman-like colour. As an introvert, I tend to think I write in navy and neutrals. Maybe too, it’s an age thing.

I also like her Old Lady Books Club, although I suppose I take issue with Rosamunde Pilcher being an old lady’s book. Maybe Pip meant that the protagonist was an old lady. In any case, I adore Pilcher’s work – have everything she’s ever written, and it was her delicious descriptions of life in Cornwall and West Scotland and her utterly relatable characters that so floated my boat. I read my first one in my late 30’s and now at 73, don’t feel the narratives have aged at all. The only writer who came close after Pilcher stopped writing was Alexander Raife. As it turns out, the book for discussion in February is Winter Solstice which is my all-time favourite, also a comfort book – something I read when I’m in distrait (its easy to get dragged into the horrors of this week in international politics).

The only embroidery I have tackled since the pup’s arrival are 1000 Hearts. It’s all I can manage. Still, some are better than none. As much for my mind as for the receiver this week. I dare say I shall return to more intricate work when the pup is older.

Strangely, the writing of Act III is going well. Maybe tiredness sharpens the creative pencil!

I reminisce about past pups, can barely remember anything, and decide that it’s like early motherhood where the tuff stuff is blanked to make sure more babies are born. I hold to the thought that with the pup this too shall pass, and before we know it he shall be grown.

Whether he’s a good dog is a whole other thing…

Music this week?

PS: As I walked the beach today, I spied a couple writing a message in the sand and videoing it as the waves came in and washed it away. I stood and waited out of shot, and then continued walking, calling to them, ‘It must have been a good message…’ to which they laughed happily. Then as I walked I imagined the many ways the message might have read. My main thought was that I hope they reminisce about the time they wrote a message on a beach and watched the sea claim it and spread it wide.