OMG. I just woke up and I'm going to be late. I'm retired for heaven's sake, so why did I make this appointment for so early? What can I say? What excuse can I give? Can I claim the traffic? Should I say my car wouldn't start? I'm sure that if I weren't a Capricorn, I wouldn't be going through these gyrations. I'm always on time. I was known throughout the length and breadth of California for being punctual, and that mantle is again falling upon me now that I live in the state of Washington. Barbara is always prompt, so many people have said, and if she's late, then you'd better worry about her 'cos something terrible must have happened. My image is going to be shattered. Hmmm, perhaps I could break my leg? That would leave my image intact. Perhaps, now this is just a thought: perhaps--I could tell the truth? Admit that I overslept?
I don't think so.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Before I Was Here, Part II
"Where have you been?" demanded Milly. "Mrs. Roland, from around the corner, came to me three hours ago, asking if I knew that you were both out with a couple of young men on motorbikes. They were all done up in leather jackets, and you two"--she spat out the words-- "were even wearing leather helmets. If you were wearing borrowed helmets, that tells me it was a planned outing. Don't you dare disappear!" Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Beaty sidling towards the stairs. "You have some explaining to do, my girls."
Gerty spilled the beans, no doubt because she felt so guilty, and expiation was her only relief. Beaty pressed her lips together, remaining above the fray and staying out of the line of fire. After sharply rebuking both of them, the normally easy-going Milly extracted Gerty's promise that she would not remove Fred's ring under such circumstances again, and crossly told Beaty that she was far too young to go out with a man in his twenties. "Off to bed, the pair of you. I'm that embarrassed-- a neighbor coming to me with such a tale."
The girls squabbled their way to bed. "Old tattletale," muttered Beaty. "Why couldn't she mind her own business?" "See what you've done?" fumed Gerty. "Don't ever ask me to do a favour for you ever again. And why didn't you say anything? You could've taken some of the heat. But no, you left it all up to me."
"Why should I?" answered Beaty. "You're the oldest. You're supposed to set an example."
Gerty was too upset and tired to come up with a suitable retort, so she simply grabbed her sister's arm and demanded her jumper back.
The next morning, at the mill gate, Ernest was sitting on his motorbike waiting for Gerty to arrive at work. "I got into trouble last night," she told him. "I'm engaged, and my Mam said it was a terrible thing that I did." Ernest's eyes narrowed as he saw the beautiful, three-diamond ring on her finger. "I was going to ask you if you wanted to go to Knaresborough on Saturday," he said. "I thought I'd rent a rowboat and we can go on the river. You can wear your engagement ring," he added.
So began a series of outings with Gerty wearing her ring, and Ernest entertaining her with his quick mind and wit. She loved being on the motorbike, and they traveled all over Yorkshire--going to the coast, riding through the moors, stopping off at pubs, and walking in the dales. One day, as they hiked through the heather on the Ilkley Moors, she told Ernest that she didn't like being called Gerty and wished she had another name. "Gertrude," said Ernest thoughtfully. He looked at her closely. "I agree," he said. "Trudy suits you much better. That's what I'll call you from now on." Because she was always so "busy," Gerty didn't have much time available to devote to her fiance, and Milly became increasingly dismayed at her daughter's seeming insensitivity to Fred's feelings.
A couple of weeks later, the sound of an enormous motor outside the house startled the entire street. It roared loudly, and then sputtered and stopped. All four sisters were home and rushed outside to see what was going on. The neighbors were also out in full force; Lily from next door, Mrs. Harbottle from across the street, and even the bow-legged Mrs. Cattel from a few doors farther up. There sat Fred, white-faced and uncomfortably perched, on a top-of-the-line, brand new Harley Davidson. He was dressed in a shiny leather jacket and shiny leather riding boots. His leather helmet was replete with fancy buckles and huge goggles that seemed to match the sparkling chrome headlight on the front of the machine. "Thought you might want to take a spin," he said in a macho voice that trembled in spite of itself. Gerty's heart sank as dread rose up in her bosom. She glanced at her two younger sisters, Laura and Kathleen, who were giggling uncontrollably, and then at Beaty, whose mouth was open in amazement. "Go inside," she ordered them, and to her surprise they obeyed. She also stared down the neighbors, who lowered their eyes and also went back inside their homes.
Meanwhile, Fred was having difficulty starting the bike and keeping it upright at the same time. His white face became red as he struggled to maintain balance. To Gerty's relief he took back his invitation for a ride, and decided he ought to drive around on it for a few days until he could vouch for her safety.
The next day, Ernest came by the house, smoothly dismounted from his motorcycle and parked it outside the door. He was greeted quite coldly by Milly, but Gerty grabbed her coat, and ignoring her mother's attempt to communicate via a pursed mouth and swishes of her head, off they went for a walk down the street. "I heard about Fred and his Harley," began Ernest. "Oh, that," said Gerty faintly. "I know it's a much fancier bike than my BSA," he continued, "but you like to go with me on it, don't you? "Yes, I love it," she answered brightly, finally looking at him. He fished around in his pocket and brought out a small box. "And I love you, Trudy," he declared, "and I wish you'd take off that ring and wear this instead." He opened the box and nestled in it was a three-diamond engagement ring, beautifully designed, but much, much smaller than the one she was wearing. (to be continued)
Gerty spilled the beans, no doubt because she felt so guilty, and expiation was her only relief. Beaty pressed her lips together, remaining above the fray and staying out of the line of fire. After sharply rebuking both of them, the normally easy-going Milly extracted Gerty's promise that she would not remove Fred's ring under such circumstances again, and crossly told Beaty that she was far too young to go out with a man in his twenties. "Off to bed, the pair of you. I'm that embarrassed-- a neighbor coming to me with such a tale."
The girls squabbled their way to bed. "Old tattletale," muttered Beaty. "Why couldn't she mind her own business?" "See what you've done?" fumed Gerty. "Don't ever ask me to do a favour for you ever again. And why didn't you say anything? You could've taken some of the heat. But no, you left it all up to me."
"Why should I?" answered Beaty. "You're the oldest. You're supposed to set an example."
Gerty was too upset and tired to come up with a suitable retort, so she simply grabbed her sister's arm and demanded her jumper back.
The next morning, at the mill gate, Ernest was sitting on his motorbike waiting for Gerty to arrive at work. "I got into trouble last night," she told him. "I'm engaged, and my Mam said it was a terrible thing that I did." Ernest's eyes narrowed as he saw the beautiful, three-diamond ring on her finger. "I was going to ask you if you wanted to go to Knaresborough on Saturday," he said. "I thought I'd rent a rowboat and we can go on the river. You can wear your engagement ring," he added.
So began a series of outings with Gerty wearing her ring, and Ernest entertaining her with his quick mind and wit. She loved being on the motorbike, and they traveled all over Yorkshire--going to the coast, riding through the moors, stopping off at pubs, and walking in the dales. One day, as they hiked through the heather on the Ilkley Moors, she told Ernest that she didn't like being called Gerty and wished she had another name. "Gertrude," said Ernest thoughtfully. He looked at her closely. "I agree," he said. "Trudy suits you much better. That's what I'll call you from now on." Because she was always so "busy," Gerty didn't have much time available to devote to her fiance, and Milly became increasingly dismayed at her daughter's seeming insensitivity to Fred's feelings.
A couple of weeks later, the sound of an enormous motor outside the house startled the entire street. It roared loudly, and then sputtered and stopped. All four sisters were home and rushed outside to see what was going on. The neighbors were also out in full force; Lily from next door, Mrs. Harbottle from across the street, and even the bow-legged Mrs. Cattel from a few doors farther up. There sat Fred, white-faced and uncomfortably perched, on a top-of-the-line, brand new Harley Davidson. He was dressed in a shiny leather jacket and shiny leather riding boots. His leather helmet was replete with fancy buckles and huge goggles that seemed to match the sparkling chrome headlight on the front of the machine. "Thought you might want to take a spin," he said in a macho voice that trembled in spite of itself. Gerty's heart sank as dread rose up in her bosom. She glanced at her two younger sisters, Laura and Kathleen, who were giggling uncontrollably, and then at Beaty, whose mouth was open in amazement. "Go inside," she ordered them, and to her surprise they obeyed. She also stared down the neighbors, who lowered their eyes and also went back inside their homes.
Meanwhile, Fred was having difficulty starting the bike and keeping it upright at the same time. His white face became red as he struggled to maintain balance. To Gerty's relief he took back his invitation for a ride, and decided he ought to drive around on it for a few days until he could vouch for her safety.
The next day, Ernest came by the house, smoothly dismounted from his motorcycle and parked it outside the door. He was greeted quite coldly by Milly, but Gerty grabbed her coat, and ignoring her mother's attempt to communicate via a pursed mouth and swishes of her head, off they went for a walk down the street. "I heard about Fred and his Harley," began Ernest. "Oh, that," said Gerty faintly. "I know it's a much fancier bike than my BSA," he continued, "but you like to go with me on it, don't you? "Yes, I love it," she answered brightly, finally looking at him. He fished around in his pocket and brought out a small box. "And I love you, Trudy," he declared, "and I wish you'd take off that ring and wear this instead." He opened the box and nestled in it was a three-diamond engagement ring, beautifully designed, but much, much smaller than the one she was wearing. (to be continued)
Monday, January 16, 2012
Music Lessons
I was raised in the village of Farnley, Yorkshire, in the north of England. It was a long time ago, but every time I hear, "Take a deep breath and begin," my mind flies back to those days, because these words of advice were offered to me by my music teacher every Tuesday evening at six o'clock. My mother always sent me to my piano lessons five minutes before the appointed time, with clean hands and face, and half-a-crown clutched in one hand, my battered leather music case in the other.
Mr. Scott lived right across Lawns Lane, only a minute from our house, in a small, mews cottage built in the early 19th century for the stablemaster. It sat across a cobblestone yard from Farnley Lodge, a much bigger home owned by Dr. Smith, the local physician. Horse stables adjoined the mews cottage, and were still in use, but not for horses. They now housed Dr. Smith's Wolseley which sat in lonely splendor amidst old tack hanging from the stone walls, various sizes of rusty pitchforks no longer needed, and assorted gardening implements which were kept clean.
When I knocked on the cottage door, Mrs. Scott, wearing a pinafore, an apron which covered both the bodice and skirt of her dress, usually let me in. She led me across the stone floor of the small entry way to the parlor on the right, where I sat in a straight-backed chair in front of the ancient grandfather clock. I can still hear the deep sounds of its ticking--tick tock tick tock. The furnishings of the house were pure, early Victorian, with a large, black-leaded, coal-burning fireplace and oven, holding up a high mantelpiece with sepia-colored photos of women in long dresses and men in tailcoats.
Mr.Scott entered the room at two minutes to six, and usually stood in front of the fireplace as he adjusted his tie. He was always neatly dressed in a dark suit and waistcoat, white shirt with a high celluloid collar, and well-shined black shoes. When his collar and tie were adjusted to his satisfaction, he took out his pocket watch which hung from the fob of his waistcoat on a gold chain, clicked open its lid, looked upon its face, and checked its hands with the hands on the clock. When the grandfather struck six, a Windsor chime, he acknowledged my presence for the first time with a nod of his head, said good evening, accepted my proffered coin, and then led the way to the sitting room which was only used for company--and piano lessons.
The highly-polished spinet piano with the perfect tone, sat against the wall to the right of the door. Its top was covered with a lace runner with a long fringe, with more sepia photos adorning it. Mr.Scott motioned me to sit on the stool and twirl around until I was the right height for the keyboard (I loved to do that), then he drew up a chair to my right. He waited for me to take out my music--I always had two books--one contained the piece I had practiced during the week, and the other was scales and finger exercises. The latter always came first. "Take a deep breath and begin," he intoned, "Tonight, the D-major scale, two octaves."
Thus began the fastest of half-hours. I respected Mr. Scott, took to heart his instructions, and glowed whenever he said I was doing well. I was always prepared for my lessons, because I wanted to please him. I was too young to realize that practicing hard was really for my own benefit.
As well as teaching piano, Mr. Scott was the organist at Farnley Church of England--St. Michael's. It was a small but beautiful edifice, built of stone from the nearby quarry, with high, arching beams over the nave, and spectacular stained-glass windows. Outside was a stone cenotaph to the fallen World War I soldiers of Farnley, which declared, "Lest We Forget" at its foot. I was never quite sure what I was supposed to remember, and mused upon this message on my way into the church. I always sat in the upstairs gallery and as close as possible to the organ with its soaring pipes. There, I looked over the tiered keyboards and watched Mr. Scott's hands, as his fingers confidently pressed the keys or pulled out the stops, and his feet flew over the pedals.
Mr. Scott lived right across Lawns Lane, only a minute from our house, in a small, mews cottage built in the early 19th century for the stablemaster. It sat across a cobblestone yard from Farnley Lodge, a much bigger home owned by Dr. Smith, the local physician. Horse stables adjoined the mews cottage, and were still in use, but not for horses. They now housed Dr. Smith's Wolseley which sat in lonely splendor amidst old tack hanging from the stone walls, various sizes of rusty pitchforks no longer needed, and assorted gardening implements which were kept clean.
When I knocked on the cottage door, Mrs. Scott, wearing a pinafore, an apron which covered both the bodice and skirt of her dress, usually let me in. She led me across the stone floor of the small entry way to the parlor on the right, where I sat in a straight-backed chair in front of the ancient grandfather clock. I can still hear the deep sounds of its ticking--tick tock tick tock. The furnishings of the house were pure, early Victorian, with a large, black-leaded, coal-burning fireplace and oven, holding up a high mantelpiece with sepia-colored photos of women in long dresses and men in tailcoats.
Mr.Scott entered the room at two minutes to six, and usually stood in front of the fireplace as he adjusted his tie. He was always neatly dressed in a dark suit and waistcoat, white shirt with a high celluloid collar, and well-shined black shoes. When his collar and tie were adjusted to his satisfaction, he took out his pocket watch which hung from the fob of his waistcoat on a gold chain, clicked open its lid, looked upon its face, and checked its hands with the hands on the clock. When the grandfather struck six, a Windsor chime, he acknowledged my presence for the first time with a nod of his head, said good evening, accepted my proffered coin, and then led the way to the sitting room which was only used for company--and piano lessons.
The highly-polished spinet piano with the perfect tone, sat against the wall to the right of the door. Its top was covered with a lace runner with a long fringe, with more sepia photos adorning it. Mr.Scott motioned me to sit on the stool and twirl around until I was the right height for the keyboard (I loved to do that), then he drew up a chair to my right. He waited for me to take out my music--I always had two books--one contained the piece I had practiced during the week, and the other was scales and finger exercises. The latter always came first. "Take a deep breath and begin," he intoned, "Tonight, the D-major scale, two octaves."
Thus began the fastest of half-hours. I respected Mr. Scott, took to heart his instructions, and glowed whenever he said I was doing well. I was always prepared for my lessons, because I wanted to please him. I was too young to realize that practicing hard was really for my own benefit.
As well as teaching piano, Mr. Scott was the organist at Farnley Church of England--St. Michael's. It was a small but beautiful edifice, built of stone from the nearby quarry, with high, arching beams over the nave, and spectacular stained-glass windows. Outside was a stone cenotaph to the fallen World War I soldiers of Farnley, which declared, "Lest We Forget" at its foot. I was never quite sure what I was supposed to remember, and mused upon this message on my way into the church. I always sat in the upstairs gallery and as close as possible to the organ with its soaring pipes. There, I looked over the tiered keyboards and watched Mr. Scott's hands, as his fingers confidently pressed the keys or pulled out the stops, and his feet flew over the pedals.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Some Thoughts on Being a Unitarian Universalist--Deed Not Creed
I left institutional religion behind many years ago. My mind couldn't wrap around what I considered to be myth and superstition, and I spent the next thirty years religion free and never felt the need for it.
Now it is 1993, a year of flux and many, many changes. My husband's business had fallen apart, we had to sell our home and move to an apartment, my son left home for college, I was finishing up my Master's degree in English, and I began a demanding new career teaching at an independent prep school. I was totally overwhelmed. The feeling that the well was empty began to consume me. I needed help.
It was easy in Southern California to find spiritual guidance. You name a cult or sect, Los Angeles has it. I decided that I would "do the rounds" of churches to see if there was anything that worked for me. Although I hadn't changed my mind about myth and superstition, I had read enough of Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell to figure out that myth is important to us, because it embraces another way of thinking about the world (and who doesn't enjoy a good story?), and like poetry and music, can transcend our material level of being.
First, I went back to early experiences and visited a Methodist church, but discovered that both God and Jesus Christ, although One, were watching my every move--plus I often drink wine, and alcohol even in moderation, is a no-no. I tried Science of Mind, but the minister, in his bright red jacket, thought he was very charismatic--and I didn't agree. I enjoyed Paramahansa Yoginanda's Self-Realization Fellowship, but it didn't quite hit the spot.
Finally, I entered the UU Church of Santa Monica, and immediately felt comfortable. I loved that the walls were decorated with symbols of world religions to acknowledge that wisdom from other cultures and belief systems can be relevant to us; that the music that first day was from the forties (Sinatra) with an uplifting beat and melody; and that the message that first day, "life itself is the miracle," taken from the words of 19th century UU theologian, philosopher, writer, and poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson all beckoned to me. Emerson also wrote: "The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common."
What a splendid way to view life, I thought. I was home.
Most Unitarian Universalists do not believe in life after death, and in his essay "Awakening," the late F .Forrester Church, a UU Minister and a wonderfully prolific writer, explains that by "offering religious security blankets and heavenly insurance policies, many faiths base their considerable appeal on a denial of death." He then goes on to say: "By refusing to accept the dispensation of death as a condition for the gift of birth, life's intrinsic wonder and promise are diminished."
Forrester Church also offers a different connotation of the fundamental Christian phrase "born again." He states that we are born again "when we awaken to the fact that life is not a given--not something to be taken for granted, or transcended after death--but a gift, undeserved and unexpected, holy, awesome, and mysterious." As Unitarian Universalists, we are free to choose our beliefs, but as Forrester Church reminds us, "we are responsible for what we make of that freedom."
My duties at school were wide and demanding, and I had little time or energy left for anything except my job during the school year. But, I joined the UU Welcome Committee which meant that one Sunday each month I stood by the Hospitality Cart during the coffee hour and engaged in conversation with anyone who was new or seemed a little lost. It was a small thing to do, but I was doing something, and I felt connected to the community. Attendance each Sunday became precious to me, and I took to heart so much of what the services called for: acts of kindness, demands for justice, equality for all, and appeals to conscience via intellect and reason. The well was refilled again and again, and it was good to see familiar faces on a regular basis. The Reverend Judith Meyer pointed out that " . . . the need for affiliation is human nature. We do not thrive on isolation whether it is social or spiritual. Community confers benefits. Our lives are longer and healthier with companionship; our dispositions stay supple and our hearts stay open."
I agree with all my heart.
In those days, I promised myself that when I retired, I would find ways to become a more integral part of the UU community, and now that has come to pass. I am a retiree, and am blessed to live in Bellingham, Washington, at this stage in my life in spite of the two terrible blows we suffered since moving here (see Reflection I).
I am so grateful for the spirit of Bellingham Unitarian Universalist Fellowship (BUF), and the kindness its minister, the Reverend Doug Wadkins, and so many of its congregation has extended to me. I look forward to supporting and taking part in its good works for as long as I'm able. Not only that, but along the way we have lots of laughs, plenty of opportunities to find out where we fit, and the pleasure of being among talented, motivated, and kindred spirits.
Now it is 1993, a year of flux and many, many changes. My husband's business had fallen apart, we had to sell our home and move to an apartment, my son left home for college, I was finishing up my Master's degree in English, and I began a demanding new career teaching at an independent prep school. I was totally overwhelmed. The feeling that the well was empty began to consume me. I needed help.
It was easy in Southern California to find spiritual guidance. You name a cult or sect, Los Angeles has it. I decided that I would "do the rounds" of churches to see if there was anything that worked for me. Although I hadn't changed my mind about myth and superstition, I had read enough of Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell to figure out that myth is important to us, because it embraces another way of thinking about the world (and who doesn't enjoy a good story?), and like poetry and music, can transcend our material level of being.
First, I went back to early experiences and visited a Methodist church, but discovered that both God and Jesus Christ, although One, were watching my every move--plus I often drink wine, and alcohol even in moderation, is a no-no. I tried Science of Mind, but the minister, in his bright red jacket, thought he was very charismatic--and I didn't agree. I enjoyed Paramahansa Yoginanda's Self-Realization Fellowship, but it didn't quite hit the spot.
Finally, I entered the UU Church of Santa Monica, and immediately felt comfortable. I loved that the walls were decorated with symbols of world religions to acknowledge that wisdom from other cultures and belief systems can be relevant to us; that the music that first day was from the forties (Sinatra) with an uplifting beat and melody; and that the message that first day, "life itself is the miracle," taken from the words of 19th century UU theologian, philosopher, writer, and poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson all beckoned to me. Emerson also wrote: "The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common."
What a splendid way to view life, I thought. I was home.
Most Unitarian Universalists do not believe in life after death, and in his essay "Awakening," the late F .Forrester Church, a UU Minister and a wonderfully prolific writer, explains that by "offering religious security blankets and heavenly insurance policies, many faiths base their considerable appeal on a denial of death." He then goes on to say: "By refusing to accept the dispensation of death as a condition for the gift of birth, life's intrinsic wonder and promise are diminished."
Forrester Church also offers a different connotation of the fundamental Christian phrase "born again." He states that we are born again "when we awaken to the fact that life is not a given--not something to be taken for granted, or transcended after death--but a gift, undeserved and unexpected, holy, awesome, and mysterious." As Unitarian Universalists, we are free to choose our beliefs, but as Forrester Church reminds us, "we are responsible for what we make of that freedom."
My duties at school were wide and demanding, and I had little time or energy left for anything except my job during the school year. But, I joined the UU Welcome Committee which meant that one Sunday each month I stood by the Hospitality Cart during the coffee hour and engaged in conversation with anyone who was new or seemed a little lost. It was a small thing to do, but I was doing something, and I felt connected to the community. Attendance each Sunday became precious to me, and I took to heart so much of what the services called for: acts of kindness, demands for justice, equality for all, and appeals to conscience via intellect and reason. The well was refilled again and again, and it was good to see familiar faces on a regular basis. The Reverend Judith Meyer pointed out that " . . . the need for affiliation is human nature. We do not thrive on isolation whether it is social or spiritual. Community confers benefits. Our lives are longer and healthier with companionship; our dispositions stay supple and our hearts stay open."
I agree with all my heart.
In those days, I promised myself that when I retired, I would find ways to become a more integral part of the UU community, and now that has come to pass. I am a retiree, and am blessed to live in Bellingham, Washington, at this stage in my life in spite of the two terrible blows we suffered since moving here (see Reflection I).
I am so grateful for the spirit of Bellingham Unitarian Universalist Fellowship (BUF), and the kindness its minister, the Reverend Doug Wadkins, and so many of its congregation has extended to me. I look forward to supporting and taking part in its good works for as long as I'm able. Not only that, but along the way we have lots of laughs, plenty of opportunities to find out where we fit, and the pleasure of being among talented, motivated, and kindred spirits.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Before I Was Here, Part I
Before I was here, there was a young woman called Gerty. She hated her name, but wasn't willing to make a fuss about it because she was named in honor of a beloved aunt, and heaven forbid she should hurt anyone's feelings. So, Gerty, obviously a rather dutiful young woman, took care of her three younger sisters while her mother, a weaver, was working in the woollen mill, and then, at age 14, she left school to work in the mill as well, so she could add her small wages to her mother's to support the family. You see, her father had been wounded in World War I, came back to England from the trenches of France thoroughly shell-shocked, and was unable to work on a regular basis because he had been bombed and gassed--his eyes constantly watered, he sometimes had difficulty breathing, he was very nervous, and he was quite deaf.
Each Saturday, Gerty went off to Woolworth's where she worked behind the makeup counter for eight hours, so she could have spending money for material to sew new clothes, buy tickets to the pictures, or have funds for a charabanc trip to Morecombe or Blackpool on occasional summer Sundays. Most every Sunday though, she put on her navy blue and red Salvation Army uniform, including the bonnet with the bow on the side, and accompanied her grandmother to the morning and evening services or the evangelical marches on Friday evenings and Sunday afternoons. These were fun, with the band merrily playing all the old hymns and accompanying the songsters who sang whenever they stopped on a vacant lot or on the grassy area outside the local picture house. Her grandmother was the one carrying the banner at the head of all the processions. At these outdoor events, she vaguely knew some of the band members, including the Chatterton brothers, Thomas and Ernest, who played euphonium and cornet respectively.
Her younger sister, Beaty, was the siren of the family and had a long line of beaux who fancied her. On the other hand, Gerty was respectably engaged to a builder, Fred Kneeshaw, a stable and responsible young man who had good prospects. One evening, Beaty, who had a mind of her own and had set her cap at Tommy Chatterton, stopped Gerty at the door to the house for a little chat. She explained that she really liked Tommy and had tried to send him a message to that effect. Unfortunately, the message reached Ernest instead, who promptly did the gentlemanly thing and asked her out. Beaty accepted the date with the proviso that Ernest bring his brother for her sister, as that was the only way her mother would allow her out. "Done!" agreed Ernest.
"You have to save me from a life of sadness and hopeless misery," moaned Beaty to Gerty. And in her usual dramatic manner she threw in, "You have to double date with the Chatterton brothers or I shall die." Gerty was very skeptical. "What's Mam going to say about an engaged woman going out with another man for the evening?" she asked reasonably. "And why can't you tell Ernest it's Tommy you sent the message to? Why do you always have to lie?" To underline her objection, she also threw in some drama, "What's more, you know mother'll kill me if she finds out what I've done." Beaty had it all worked out. "I can't tell Ernest that," she cried. "It would make me look such a fool. Besides, they'll each be on their own motorbike, and they'll pick us up at the end of the street so Mam won't know. You'll go first and climb on the pillion seat of Ernest's bike 'by mistake' then I'll have to climb up behind Tommy on his bike--reluctantly."
After much persuading, pouting and generally making a nuisance of herself, Beaty finally got Gerty to agree to help her out. On the appointed night, the two sisters walked to the end of the street where the boys in their leather jackets were confidently waiting. Gerty slipped off her engagement ring and put it in her pocket. The motorbikes were shined to a fare-thee-well, and as both Tommy and Ernest were trying to outdo one another in the engine revving department, it was quite easy for Gerty to perch behind Ernest, and for Beaty to fling her arms around Tommy's waist as she climbed up behind him.
Gerty and Ernest ended up in Guiseley, and over a penn'oth of chips and a fish each with salt and vinegar, they laughed and talked and enjoyed each other's company immensely. Ernest asked Gerty out again, and to her surprise, she agreed before she realized what she was saying. Ernest waited with her at the end of the street until Tommy and Beaty came roaring up, and then she slipped on her ring before walking up the street and into the house--where their mother was waiting with a face like thunder. (to be continued)
Each Saturday, Gerty went off to Woolworth's where she worked behind the makeup counter for eight hours, so she could have spending money for material to sew new clothes, buy tickets to the pictures, or have funds for a charabanc trip to Morecombe or Blackpool on occasional summer Sundays. Most every Sunday though, she put on her navy blue and red Salvation Army uniform, including the bonnet with the bow on the side, and accompanied her grandmother to the morning and evening services or the evangelical marches on Friday evenings and Sunday afternoons. These were fun, with the band merrily playing all the old hymns and accompanying the songsters who sang whenever they stopped on a vacant lot or on the grassy area outside the local picture house. Her grandmother was the one carrying the banner at the head of all the processions. At these outdoor events, she vaguely knew some of the band members, including the Chatterton brothers, Thomas and Ernest, who played euphonium and cornet respectively.
Her younger sister, Beaty, was the siren of the family and had a long line of beaux who fancied her. On the other hand, Gerty was respectably engaged to a builder, Fred Kneeshaw, a stable and responsible young man who had good prospects. One evening, Beaty, who had a mind of her own and had set her cap at Tommy Chatterton, stopped Gerty at the door to the house for a little chat. She explained that she really liked Tommy and had tried to send him a message to that effect. Unfortunately, the message reached Ernest instead, who promptly did the gentlemanly thing and asked her out. Beaty accepted the date with the proviso that Ernest bring his brother for her sister, as that was the only way her mother would allow her out. "Done!" agreed Ernest.
"You have to save me from a life of sadness and hopeless misery," moaned Beaty to Gerty. And in her usual dramatic manner she threw in, "You have to double date with the Chatterton brothers or I shall die." Gerty was very skeptical. "What's Mam going to say about an engaged woman going out with another man for the evening?" she asked reasonably. "And why can't you tell Ernest it's Tommy you sent the message to? Why do you always have to lie?" To underline her objection, she also threw in some drama, "What's more, you know mother'll kill me if she finds out what I've done." Beaty had it all worked out. "I can't tell Ernest that," she cried. "It would make me look such a fool. Besides, they'll each be on their own motorbike, and they'll pick us up at the end of the street so Mam won't know. You'll go first and climb on the pillion seat of Ernest's bike 'by mistake' then I'll have to climb up behind Tommy on his bike--reluctantly."
After much persuading, pouting and generally making a nuisance of herself, Beaty finally got Gerty to agree to help her out. On the appointed night, the two sisters walked to the end of the street where the boys in their leather jackets were confidently waiting. Gerty slipped off her engagement ring and put it in her pocket. The motorbikes were shined to a fare-thee-well, and as both Tommy and Ernest were trying to outdo one another in the engine revving department, it was quite easy for Gerty to perch behind Ernest, and for Beaty to fling her arms around Tommy's waist as she climbed up behind him.
Gerty and Ernest ended up in Guiseley, and over a penn'oth of chips and a fish each with salt and vinegar, they laughed and talked and enjoyed each other's company immensely. Ernest asked Gerty out again, and to her surprise, she agreed before she realized what she was saying. Ernest waited with her at the end of the street until Tommy and Beaty came roaring up, and then she slipped on her ring before walking up the street and into the house--where their mother was waiting with a face like thunder. (to be continued)
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