Is that all there is?

                                                                

Do you remember as a child, plunging your chubby hand into a sweetie bag only to find you’d already eaten all its yummy contents and thinking  ‘is that all there is?’

I sometimes cast my mind back to when I first married. We made vows and promised to love and support each other for the rest of our lives. Loves young dream; life was wonderful during the honeymoon years. But then the memories of the good wishes and confetti faded; what happened to our vision of the future? ‘Is that all there is?’ I asked my wife. Then overnight everything changed. We were expecting our first child.

When he was born we felt our family was complete. But our lives were different. We were woken up during the night, our house became a tip! Every spare minute of the day was taken up by playing, feeding, and clearing up. I remember holding this tiny thing in one hand, looking around at all the chaos and thinking ‘is that all it is?’ There’s nothing of him. How can something so small bring so much utter joy into our lives? But it did, and our marriage was richer for it.

We had a little garden and I was determined to provide for us. I had a go at growing a few vegetables. One sunny afternoon I proudly ran into the kitchen holding in one hand a few green beans and in the other a six or seven misshapen tomatoes. ‘Is that all there is?’ my wife asked. And with every year, the question was asked with increasing regularity. Everything I did fell short of her expectations. Then it was my turn to ask; ‘is that all there is?’

Now things have changed. I’m in the autumn of my life and I only have myself to please. Throughout my life my vision of the future has constantly changed with each unexpected twist and turn. I look around at my modest apartment and think back to the homes I’ve owned in the past. Memories and treasures I no longer have room for have long ago been discarded. Now my world is represented by a few photos and a shelf or two of books. ‘Is that all there is?’ I ask myself. But then I notice the box of chocolates on the table beside me; a gift from my daughter on Father’s Day. It’s half full and I’m reminded that my life is far from half empty. During my life I've been blessed with so many gifts.I think about my family, my parents, my kids and my grandkids. I gaze from my window at the park opposite my home. There are ducks and swans swimming around in search of bread thrown into the water by excited children. I can see young lads kicking footballs, giggling girls comparing  texts, joggers puffing and panting, and fathers desperately trying to launch colourful kites into the blue sky to impress their kids. And then I watch the sun go down sending a cosy orange glow into my room. If that’s all there is, then it’s more than enough for me.

This week the prompt at Carry On Tuesday is 'Is that all there is?' and the final topic on Writers Island is 'Vision of the future'. SundayScribblings asks us to ponder on 'Gifts'                                                        

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Ten steps to go

Ive got a bit behind with my writing so I've comblined this weeks prompt at Writers Island, Threshold ,with last weeks prompt at  Sunday Scribblings, The Next Step.

Silver spears of rain darted downward and glistened in the glare from the streetlamp which shook in the wind. It was as if his face and hands were being pricked by a thousand needles. In his arms a heavy load. Not much farther, the door was in sight, not far to go. He fumbled for the key which had lodged itself in the bottom of his pocket. As he pulled it out, his fingers which were numb with the cold let it fall the to the rain drenched pavement at his feet. The bundle he carried, his precious load was becoming heavier by the second but he dare not let it out of his grasp. Scooping the key from the ground took all the effort he could muster. His next task was to push it into the lock without once again letting it escape from his hand. He pushed it, twisted it, and eventually the door swung inwards. He stumbled into the entrance, it was totally dark. With his free hand he felt along the wall until he found the light button. He pressed it and in an instant the hallway was flooded with white light. It hurt his eyes. Ahead lay his next challenge, the staircase to his apartment which went steeply upwards, then twisted, and rose again then turned.  One slow step at a time, each one more difficult than the last. The next step, then the next and the next. A few feet above him he could see the door to his flat. Just ten steps to go, nine steps, eight steps ...... the light went out. Complete blackness. He swore out loud. His arms ached, why did he ever agree to carry this cumbersome load from his car to home? In the darkness he tripped then tottered back a step, quickly grasping the handrail preventing him and his precious bundle from falling back down the stairwell. He felt his arms were giving way, but there was no way he would give up now, not now he was so close.

As he reached the top of the stairs he located the light timer and stabbed at it, lighting up all around. He knelt down resting his load on his knee as he once again searched for his keys. He juggled them in his free hand until he found the one which would let him into his apartment. With all his strength he rose to his feet and pushed the key into the lock. A twist and the door flew open. A triumphant smile illuminated his face as he carried his cherished cargo across the threshold then lowered it to the floor. He lay down alongside, totally exhausted but elated. “Thank you so much” he said “for becoming my wife today, but that’s the last time I carry you anywhere!”


PS. Originating in Rome, the bride used to have to be carried across the threshold because she was or pretended to be reluctant to enter the bridal chamber. In those days it was considered lady like to be hesitant at this point or look hesitant. Another legend has it that bride was carried over the threshold to protect her from any evil spirits lingering there. 

Rosey's allotment - redesigned!

We knew she was up to something. All of us were barred from visiting Rosey’s allotment. The general consensus was that she’d got bored with it and didn’t want us to see the mess it had become. After all, this time last year, we were constantly being invited to partake of a gin and tonic and a help ourselves to as many vegetables as we  could carry.

I was at a loose end yesterday, and I knew that Rosey was away visiting her friend in Piddletrenthide. No doubt she would be sitting in the garden of the Chamber Inn on the bank of the River Piddle and having a giggle catching up with all the latest news and gossip. So, I ventured down to the allotment site to take a look at her one-time pride and joy.

I was gobsmacked. Imagine the scene. The Meads Allotments comprises some twenty plots. Most are neat and tidy with rows of salad leaves, vegetables and fruit. Early runner beans sway in the breeze, and tomatoes blush in the June summer sun. Earnest gardeners hoe and dig and harvest their bounty. One or two plots look in need of a little attention, and a couple are overgrown. I expected Rosey’s to fall into the latter category, but I was wrong. I felt as if my eyes were deceiving me because there in the middle of all those bountiful small holdings was a garden! Not a vegetable garden – a proper garden! Gone were the rows of potatoes and peas that graced the plot last time I visited. In their place I found clumps of colourful flowers and plump little shrubs. Between them was a shingle path, chunky pottery tubs  and a wooden picnic bench. The shed sported a fresh coat of pink paint, a wind chime tinkled as a robin pecked at the food on a rustic bird table. There I stood there in an oasis! A few square feet of peace and tranquillity.

So Rosey, your secret is out! Why you kept it so quiet I know not. I can only assume you were waiting for the right time to invite us all over for a garden warming! I have to congratulate you on creating something completely different, but then you were 

never one to court convention!

A moving experience

Moving home should be simple, shouldn’t it? A bit of forward planning is all that it takes. So, a couple of weeks ago I started organising my move. Book a removal van, simple. Ask for a couple of days off work; after all that’s all I’d need. Contact the gas folk, the electric people. Arrange for my mail to be redirected in case I forgot to tell everyone my new address. I remembered to tell the council, the water company, my bank, and most important of all, my internet provider. Then of course I had to organise a land line, it’s cheaper than using my cell phone. The new place needed a fresh coat of paint; as much as I loved the 60’s, I felt it really needed bringing up to date.My lovely daughter and her dear partner stepped in to complete that task for me. The old place need a jolly good clean. A local company was contracted to dust, hoover and wash.

Downsizing always creates problems. It involves shifting a whole load of stuff that’s been moved from home to home without ever being unwrapped, cleaned or looked at. Sentimentality has no place in such a situation. Things I’d forgotten I’d had, simply had to go. I organised a boot sale to get rid of a lot of it. It was quite sad selling a treasured possession for a few pence and seeing it disappear into the distance under some strangers arm. What wasn’t sellable went to the local rubbish dump. Farewell fond memories, you’ll live on in some landfill site and soon be forgotten. You may even pop up again in a hundred years time and end up in a museum or an antique shop.

As the day approached the packing process reached fever pitch. Bags of this and boxes of that, where was it all to go? On the day of the move the sun looked down mockingly on the frantic scene. The cleaners arrived with mops and buckets and the furniture van slid into a narrow space outside my door. Three hours later it was loaded and started its journey to my new home a few streets away.

By teatime all was calm. I stood in my new apartment in a daze, looking around at teetering piles of my possessions, most of which were in the wrong rooms.

First things first, a glass of wine. Then I needed to make a call. My land line wasn’t working. I called British Telecom on my cell phone only to be told that there was a fault, and I needed to be patient for a few days. OK, I’ll email. My internet was not connected as promised. A call to my provider resulted in me being informed that they had made an error and I’d have to wait a few days for my service.  I picked up the mail from the mat. The first one I opened was a letter informing me that my postal redirection would be delayed for a week. There was another missive from the gas company informing me that a new meter should have been installed the day before had been put on hold for three weeks.

I’ve arranged some of the new bits and pieces I purchased for my tiny bathroom and they look ridiculous. All of my old stuff which seemed so small in the old place looks huge here. Oh dear.

It’s now four days on, and gradually things are beginning to happen. My phone spluttered into life yesterday and as you can tell, I now have access to the internet. I still have to wait for several other things that were promised but not delivered, but my apartment is beginning to look less of a bomb site and more like a disorganised mess! At least that’s progress!

I’ve decided I’ll never move again. The next box to leave this apartment will be the one carrying me! Hang on a minute; I remember saying that last time I moved, and the time before.