Five Paragraphs on the shaping of me.

 

“How many times must I tell you?” my Mother shouted. “How many times must I tell you, question mark” Is what my young self-heard. Like all good girls, I answered. A question should be answered, or you might be remembered as rude. I twisted my fingers like a church and steeple; stood on tippy toes and wore my most thoughtful look. “Maybe twice Mummy, I might not quite hear you with once … If I was doing something else … like reading.”  Shuffling backwards I sucked in my breath. “I might not hear … the first time.” I continued, I was careful with my answer, making sure to not say too many words or smile too much while I spoke. Unbeknown to me, that was not the right answer. I knew this because Mummy’s lip curled and her face twisted, into that not nice face, the one that made my knickers wet, which she liked even less than my answer; Five I was then.


My school uniform was still being worn when Mum came in looking for me; frowning. My buttons all skew-whiff, socks wrinkled into my shoes and my book firmly clasped between ink-stained fingers; behind my back. I stood straight and looked into her eyes while she spoke, knowing I should have changed before finishing that page, then she would not be as cross. Why hadn’t I? Simple, my book called me. I looked down at my shoe while I rubbed it against my calf; blackening my sock. Both hands were behind my back; clasping Black beauty. This left me unprotected, unprotected against falling, losing my balance. But I was not showing my book, not for anything. “How dare you answer me back, you defiant girl” I felt Mummy’s spittle land on my face as she snarled and poked me with her finger. “I was, only trying to answer Mummy” I whispered. “Just you say that once more girl!” That statement was another trap I fell into when I was small. Even though I was being asked to repeat something, I should never, ever do it. If I did, sore legs, no tea and bed would follow. That’s when my books became best friends. Under the blankets with my penlight torch between my teeth; I treasured that torch. I could check for bogeymen or the devil  … she said he would get my tongue if I lied, so I had to be vigilant.

I was one of a family of five, at least until my youngest sister came along when I was six. Six years and four months old, that was when she appeared; all soft and smiley, smelling of milk and baby powder. She came with a plethora of things I had never seen before. Mum and Dad must have done a deal on a job lot; my eldest sister said. There came a van with a carry-cot a bath with a stand, a chair that bounced, bags of rompers, dresses, vests and cardigans. There were lidded buckets, nappies, both muslin and towelling. Then there were the toys. My toys, I had outgrown them … so Mummy said. Off they went,  with new ones in her box. How she came to be, or how that happened, I am sure my sisters wondered as much as me.  But it did, and there she was, making the family of parents with four girls. She was no bother, she would be asleep when we left for school and asleep or about to sleep when we came home; so I only recall her being around at the weekends and holidays. With two older sisters to help, I didn’t get much of a look in; not old enough to be trusted and not experienced at life. My help was to sit next to her chair and read her stories, and of course to call out if there were any smells.

Learning the meaning of things is easier on a page, you can see the question marks and commas. ” When is a question, not to be answered?” By ten years old I knew better, but at five I hadn’t realised. You had to read the face, and interpret the tone that words were delivered in; if you were to understand. At ten, I knew when not to answer … though answering back was still a confusing one. As is, ‘just you come here.’ You do have to go as soon as it is said; not too quick, or too slow. I do not remember being taught to read faces or voices. It was something it seems you just had to know. It felt like I had to … just know, quite a lot Whilst growing up.

By fifteen I had learned to negotiate, compromise and keep my head down and nose clean. I had been working since I was fourteen, after school and at weekends. Sweeping and tea making in the hair salon, fetching coats and always smiling; part of the job. I lived in a lodging house and had an apprenticeship in hair and beauty, and for the most part, I coped nicely. Being fifteen was a time of hard work and independent living. I paid minimal rent; part of which was to cook the odd lunch for the landlady’s Father. Rent was paid for with three jobs. The hairdressers, the night cafe behind the Mace shop, and working every Sunday in a posh coffee shop in a neighbouring town. The reading of expressions came in handy at the salon, especially for nodding and smiling in the right places. Having my hair and nails done at work was a perk of the job and gave me an air of sophistication, or so I thought. Mixing with the elite as well as knowing good manners. I was brought up with, and my compulsion to read anything I could get my hands on made for a well-rounded, smart, nicely spoken, hard-working young woman. During this time my evenings were filled with writing, poetry mostly, all tucked between the pages of my favourite books. There I was secretly hoping Louisa M Alcott would permeate my work; improve it, as if by magic. But, as all fifteen-year-olds were back then, I was very naive.

My top five books were:
Alice in Wonderland
Black beauty
Mary Poppins
Little Women.
These taught me that words were wonderful … as long as they are kept in order. Books were my friends and writing could catch your fears on paper. Much better than in your chest.

So here we are with the power of five. Five senses, five elements, five digits on hands and feet. Five paragraphs .What more could anyone want?

I am unable to add this to the blog competition that it was written for, as alas, I got carried away. 375 was the count to stay below to qualify. This piece, is three times longer so I place it here to share with those who might enjoy a read. Iwould like to know if you have found it impossible on occasion. To tame a flash fiction to sit between the numbers required. Please comment I love to talk. .. 🎶😲🎵

She Was Small But She Was Fierce “Where did I Go”?

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“Sometimes I wonder how we did the things we did.
A smaller version of me climbed trees to scrump apples, ran so fast the wind couldn’t ruffle my hair, made a collage, painted a scene; art fit for a gallery. Was it me at all?”

Others built warships from balsa wood, and painted soldiers ruby red, danced with satin laced shoes and some learned needlepoint, or pricked seams to craft a frock.
Boys with hair grips showed us how to pick a lock. Riding the handlebars of wonky wheeled bikes, proud on a stage with squealing mic’s that didn’t spoil what I would sing or say, that self took it in her stride and did it anyway.

I championed the underdog and put playground bullies in their place; mostly with my tongue, because in my head it was the right thing to do. After such a scene I’d maybe come off worse and cry like a sop, but I’d get up with a skip and a hop and carry on undeterred, lesson learned but sometimes a gentle soul saved.

Mostly I have done what I thought was right, at least in the guise of my smaller self I believe I did. My need to talk and tell a tale stayed as did the ability to hold time still with words. My wordy thing didn’t escape nor the tears, the ones that flow shamelessly at a nasty word, or a sad film, or brought on by the pages of a book. I was and am a crier it is the part of me that exposes my underbelly.

“When did the courage to leap dissipate? When did I begin to hesitate, or worry what other people thought?” I am still that girl, I am older, taller (not much) heavier than I once was, which I suppose slows your pace. Now i have wisdom on my side, but I think it through first and the moment has gone. I wonder what others would think if I gave him a piece of my mind … the boy who kicked his Mother in the supermarket, or the teenagers shoving a child at the bus stop. When did the fear of me being hurt get in the way of what I know was the right thing to do? These hesitations, or lack of finishing, the things that once you would not have given a second thought to; they bother me.

writers quote wednesday writing challenge

This was inspired by Writers qoute Wednesday Thank you Ronovon and Coleen
Please do visit and read other interpretations of wisdom press to do so thank you.

My Shakespeare Quote made me think outside of the norm I really hope you like it.

We grow and allow insecurities and media hype get in the way of what was seen once as ” putting someone in their place.” We had an unspoken respect for people, those who without violence pulled you up, put you right. We are a society of people scared to use freedom of speech, we turn the other cheek, don’t look it will go away. I want to be that fearless girl, who takes a knock or two for standing up for others. I want my smaller fearless self back.

This post, some would say is the indulgent outpourings of my mind, and on that note I don’t expect much in the way of responses but if you do… if you feel, we as individuals have left something behind; along with our childhoods, and you like me wish it hadn’t gone; then tell me. Or maybe I am… the only one?

Picture was loaned from pixaby. Thank you a free resource that is greatly appreciated.