The Cat at the End of the Road

Isn’t he gorgeous? I don’t know his name but I see him on the wall from time to time. He’s not scared of Bella - he just looks down and stares.
We left Airdrie after the girls went to school this morning and the journey home was good.
I - and maybe Frank - will be back up there on 24th for Lucy’s dance show - which we now almost know off by heart she’s danced it so much at the weekend.
The garden has apparently been well watered with rain while we were away. 
It was cold when we got home so Frank lit the stove and I put my fluffy onesie on. 
We’ve had a chill out afternoon.

Yesterday’s poem was finished on the way home today in the car. I was watching the girl’s happy Sunday yesterday and compared it to the Sundays I experienced as a child.

155/365 
Latin and Sore Knees

I used to hate Sundays
because the next day was school
Sundays were depressing
though mornings were OK as a rule.
A trip in the car to Formby 
and a picnic in the dunes
but when we got home later
oh, those miserable afternoons
doing unfinished homework
getting ready to go to mass
but Dad was a poor time keeper
We always went in late…and last!
Sometimes we missed the service
and only just made Benediction
this caused me such embarrassment
and between me and dad some friction.
As I got older I was allowed
to go to church with a friend
but all that Latin and kneeling
didn’t entice me to attend
So at the age of thirteen and a half
I told Dad a barefaced lie
and said that I hade been to church
He looked me in the eye
‘Who was the priest this morning?’
My face flushed hot and red, 
‘Father Lynch’ I said defiantly.
‘Aaah! Gotcha - it was Father Murphy!’ he said.

I was thinking about doing some sewing in the next couple of days and that made me think of my Mum who was an exceptionally skilled seamstress/tailor. Hence today’s poem.

156/365
Skill in the Genes

By God, my Mum could sew a seam,
she could have shown ‘Coco’ a thing or two,
no apprenticeship to her name,
she knew instinctively what to do,
from how to make a sharp lapel 
or tailoring a suit for my Dad,
her wedding gown from parachute silk
or a wee girl’s kilt made from plaid.
As a child she taught herself to sew
making tiny clothes for her doll,
maybe her mother showed her how
before her bad heart took its toll.
I never met Nellie, my grandmother,
She died when Mum was just ten 
but Nellie’s dad and granddad
were tailors way, way back when.
Before machines ever sewed a seam,
before overlockers would trim,
each tiny stitch was sewn by hands 
that deftly over fabric would skim.
This skill has been passed down to me
But I think somewhat diluted,
I’ll never match my Mum’s talent
but my stitches will always be rooted
in those men that mum never knew,
those tailors of Auchencairn.
If only I could tell her, their skills 
ran in the blood through her veins.

I only discovered my Scottish ancestry a few years ago on Ancestry, my Mum didn’t know anything about the tailors in her family. She just knew how to sew.

That’s all for today - Goodnight :-)X