Monday, February 16, 2009

SPANISH VALENTINE

SPANISH VALENTINE
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So here I am at Malaga airport with two suitcases, on standby for the next flight to the UK.
I’d had enough! I was going back after my dream turned into a nightmare in Spain.
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But let me go back a little. John and I had been living together for a few years when we decided to try to make our dream come true. We had our own recruitment business that we could leave in our manager’s capable hands and we thought it would be great to have a place we could disappear to, especially during the horrible English winters. After some searching, we bought a little house “in need of reform” in the middle of a small valley in Spain.
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It was wonderful at first; blue skies, warm sunshine, with a lovely little white pueblo not too far a drive from the house. There was the gorgeous smell of country herbs and the wonderful fruit and nut trees growing all around. Everyone we met was so friendly, even though our Spanish was very limited, and we felt we had truly found paradise.
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The house was lovely, with fantastic views to the mountains; not too much land, but then we couldn’t handle acres of it! What we had really looked forward to was putting our own stamp on the house; repairing the odd damaged wall, putting in a bathroom and kitchen, making some sort of path to the front door. You know, little things like that!
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I knew there was work to be done - but what work! We had spent months digging, moving, building, painting.
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It was lovely in the spring with the clouds of almond blossom, wafting it’s magic perfume towards us. We would work in the mornings, then go to the village for wine and tapas a few times each week. In the evenings, it was bliss, sitting out under the incredible sky, so full of stars I could hardly believe it was real. Summer was good too, except for the exhausting heat, and the pesky mossies who seemed to think I was the only food supply in Spain.
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We were both working really hard, but John seemed to be totally wrapped up in it all. Oh, he looked wonderful; his hair bleached blond by the sun and his tanned muscles getting better every day (eat your heart out Brad Pitt!) It wasn’t so good for me, as I’ll tell you now.
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The wet season arrived, and I never seemed to be out of jeans and wellies, squishing through mounds of mud.
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My once dewy English complexion was now looking leathery and grey, my hair dull and what fingernails I had left were short and grubby. I lived in jeans, wellies, a big jumper and my hair tucked under a woolly hat for protection. It was like this that John suggested we go down to the village for lunch! “Haven’t been for ages” He said, “No time to change”. So off we went.
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Manolo’s bar was our usual watering hole and I looked forward to a nice tapas and a glass of red wine, but today something was different. Behind the bar stood Carmen! All voluptuous with long shiny black hair, ruby lips and scarlet talons to die for! John was captivated. The twit kept going on about how luscious her hair was and how on earth did she keep her nails so beautiful working in the bar. The final straw came when Carmen asked him if I was his little brother! He nearly fell of his stool, laughing so much. So did everyone else. I was heartbroken! I tried to laugh along with everyone, but inside I just curled up.
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So it was that, after a stony silence on the way back to the house, we had an almighty row. I went over the top. All the frustrations of the past months came to the surface. I said some unfair things and ended up telling John that when I was gone, he could ask Carmen to come and do the digging! Then I stormed upstairs and began to pack.
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In silence, John drove me to the airport. As we parted, he gave me my puzzle book, the one I always work on while waiting for a flight. I walked away, back straight, fighting tears and inside pleading for him to ask me to stay, but he didn’t.
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So here I am, waiting for a flight. Might as well do a puzzle. I open the book, and there taped to the page is a piece of paper that says
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Please don’t leave me all alone
Without you it’s a house – not home
I don’t want any skies of blue
Or sunny days if not with you
You are my dream, my love, my life
Please say that you will be my wife
And that for ever you’ll be mine
My perfect Spanish valentine!
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As the tears flow down my face, I look up and see him standing in front of me!
He pulls me to my feet, wraps his arms around me, and says,
“Come on precious, let’s go home”.
And we do.

LINK TO CROCHET 'N' MORE

LINK TO CROCHET 'N' MORE: "www.crochetnmore.com"

Sunday, February 1, 2009

THE CHURCH HOUSE


Park Congregational Church, Francis Street, Halifax, West Yorkshire, England
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THE CHURCH HOUSE
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I was four when we moved to the “posh” house. My first years were spent living in an old terraced house that had immensely steep steps, and the only place to play was either the draughty hall or the street outside. This new home was a total revelation.
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I don’t remember the move itself. It just seems that one day I was there in a large solidly built house, with a bathroom, no neighbours, and lots of carpeted rooms. It was into one of those that Mum would let my brother Jimmy, sister Pauline and me go once a week, on our own. We would lie on the floor, the lights out, the radio on, and thrill to the spooky voice that declared “Journey into Space”.


Jimmy, me, Pauline
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Still, spellbound, transported into another world, I took tiny hesitant breaths lest I should be discovered by some evil alien. The dimness of the room wrapped me in a cocoon of safety and the bodies of my brother and sister gave me warmth and protection. Suddenly I screeched out loud as my brother’s fingers grabbed the back of my neck. To the sound of my sister’s hysterical giggling the door flew open.
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A shaft of light pierced the darkness and Mum marched in, threatening “if you don’t behave you can go to bed right now” and our rapt attention was instantly restored.
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To the left of the house was the church, a wonderfully constructed building that seemed to touch the sky, majestic yet welcoming, with hostas planted all around the edge. It was these same plants that were to claim my treasured green necklace when I was six. At least, that’s where I always believed it had fallen, and for many years I nurtured the idea that the twinkling stones were still lying there, waiting to burst into magical flowers.
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To the side of the house was the Sunday School, venue for so many exciting happenings; pantomimes, plays, fetes, wedding receptions, jumble sales. Each Sunday I would walk the few steps from house to Sunday School for bible classes.
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Little surprise then when I won an award for good attendance! It was a book, “The Magic Faraway Tree” by Enid Blyton; the first proper book of my own. It told the story of a magic tree, inhabited by strange peoples.
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Clouds containing new worlds would land on the topmost branches and you could climb the tree and visit these magical lands where all sorts of adventures happened, but you had to be sure to leave in time or the cloud would float away and you would be trapped there for years and years.
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I could lose myself for hours, sliding down the slippery slope in the centre of the tree, having visited yet another fantasy land.
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The Sunday School itself was a place of adventure, particularly when special events were held. I sauntered through the doorway, paying no attention to the entrance fee (I was a resident, after all) and began to squirm my way through the forest of trousers, skirts, legs and bags to see what was going on. Peering between two coats and craning my neck I could see a lady high up, dressed like a cowboy, singing and waving two guns around in the air. Mum told me later it was a show, but I wasn’t sure what the lady was showing.
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Best of all were the weddings. I would sit at the front window and watch the processions go by from the school to church; dark suits, white flowing lace, veils, and little boys wearing silly suits, carrying velvet cushions with rings and things, that would be empty when they made the trip back from church to school. In between, there would be lovely music, then soft murmurings from the church, then photographs and faces, smiling, crying, laughing, chattering, and talking all at once as they posed on the bright green grass.
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One day while I was sitting at the window, daydreaming, a squirrel appeared on the window-ledge. For several moments we sat, staring at each other, he on one side of the glass and me on the other. Suddenly we both realised what we were looking at! He shot off and I leapt for the front door, yelling “Mom, Granddad, quick, come look.”
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Then began a frantic chase all around the grounds, each of us trying to get a closer look at the elusive creature who eventually found refuge in the arms of a sheltering sycamore.
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The grounds were marvellous. Around each building there were lawns, lovely flat comfortable ones for lying on in the sun; sloping ones to roll down when no-one was looking; lawns strewn with daisies just waiting to be transformed into garlands for my waist length hair, or cropped expanses where Jimmy would set up his railway track and play with his train set.
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In the midst of these green swards were lovingly tended flowerbeds filled with dainty pinks that wafted their sweet fragrance into my delighted face as I played in the happy innocence of childhood.
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Crowning the whole area were trees; strong, powerful, protective trees, trusted guardians, spreading their branches like leafy arms waiting to enfold me in their embrace. They filled my eyes, my life; daily, yearly, with their myriad colours. Deep velvety green, pale lemon, green with purple hues, stripy green, jelly green, sparkling necklace green. Autumn brought tans, browns, reds, golds, squirrel colours, sunset shades. I would look up at the trees and marvel at how beautiful they were, how old, how constant, how secure.
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We were able to live in this paradise because my Granddad was caretaker of the church and Sunday school; he created the flowerbeds and made the grass so beautiful. He also cleaned the church. He had a vacuum cleaner with along tube for getting in and out of the pews and many a time he would chase me with it, threatening with laughter to suck me right into the dust bag! And as my dress drifted dangerously near to the nozzle I would squeal delightedly and run away, terrified lest he really could do it.
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One time, my Granddad took us all under the church, into the vast caverns beneath. Dark corners loomed out at me; a heavy stillness filled the oppressive air; mountains of sand and salt rose out of the ground like strange beasts rising from sleep. I was afraid. Granddad told us how a poor girl had been murdered there – lured to her death in the darkness. The man who did it was dead too, hanged. It didn’t seem right, such badness under such goodness. I was glad to get out into the bright sunshine, into the light.
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It was here at this same church that I saw my first Harvest Festival. Etched in my mind forever is the scene as I stepped through the darkness of the church doorway and beheld the light before me.
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Fruits of nature such as I had never seen before; huge pumpkins like enormous suns shining down on me, vegetables whose name, and taste, were beyond my comprehension; glossy globes, red and yellow like Christmas tree baubles; strange things, pyjama striped and sausage shaped, but oh so big!
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Golden sheaves of wheat leant drunkenly against dark stone, and flowers in great abundance seemed to fill every corner. My eyes widened to take it all in and my nostrils were assailed with such an exquisite perfume that I felt that this must truly be heaven.
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