strangers

When our cousin Krysia died in 2009, my sister and I were trusted with the task of clearing out her home in Elgin. There were photographs in the loft, so I took it upon myself to sort, order and place them in albums. The photos documented Krysia's life and also that of her parents, Jessie (née Logan) and Andrew (Alfons) Dabrowski.

These photographs are Jessie's, my fathers sister, born 1913 near Elgin, Scotland. Jessie trained as a nurse and while nursing during WWII met her husband to be, Alfons, a badly wounded Polish soldier. Apparently, it was love at first sight.  

The stacks of photographs were sorted into two piles, one familiar people and places and another for strangers. Below are the only images I kept of strangers, something in their expressions, fashion, informal and formal poses fascinated me and I keep them in a large decorative glass that belonged to Jessie. Some have the handwriting of the sitter on the back, to Jessie or Jerry as she was known.

What became of these friends of my aunt, did they know her little brother, Robert? My Grandmother Alexina? Here they are now, gathered together and presented to you, an insight into Scotland in the 30s and 40s, their link - Jessie Dabrowska. 

mum

My mum, Doreen Logan, died on the 2nd May. Her funeral, on the 18th May was a month ago today. Now I am paused, at times with no words to describe how I feel.

As a little girl I stitched this lavender bag for her using fabric scraps and ribbon. It still retained a trace of scent almost 40 years after its making. It was one of the items placed in her coffin.

kiss'd

Leigh Hunt 1784 - 1859

JENNY KISSED ME

Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that heath and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.

contribution

Sitting in the back of a taxi, listening as a good humoured 67 year old Bangladeshi born taxi driver told me his life story, his 50 years in Yorkshire, his wife, children and eight grandchildren. We joked I'd write a book about him once out of the taxi!

As these things do, the conversation turned to my family, so I told him about being childless and about my work with children. He began to speak and I braced myself, BUT he amazed me by saying, 'that's how you make your contribution, the children will never forget you'. 

I was quietly staggered - my input being acknowledged and recognised by a parent, as part of the rich and complex tapestry of child raising, not excluded or dismissed. Did he have any idea of the impact of these words? I'll never forget them. 

herb walk

 Cleavers

 Hawthorn

 White dead-nettle

 Cow parsley

 Yarrow

Cleavers and stinging nettle

take flight

20 years ago, cycling alone in Norfolk on a blue sky day, staying at my boyfriends parents house, needing some headspace maybe. Looking up I saw a solitary swan, flying high above, pure white and distant, its long neck held out straight as an arrow. 

Passing through Kings Cross prompts memories of a former life, as the timings for my Wakefield train coincide with announcements listing all the stations on route for the departing train to Kings Lynn. I once had a boyfriend at one of these stops and always think of him when hearing the announcements. This memory reappeared towards the end of my journey today, it lingered and got me pondering. 

nostalgia

Two weeks ago today I went on a birthday walk with my sister. Off Oxford Street is Great Titchfield Street, where our Uncle Fred used to live. We found the doorway to his flat, then headed to the nearby BT Tower and onwards, past the cliff like edifice of the hospital I was born in to St Pancras, rising like a ships bow from the Euston Road.

 Doorstep of Radiant House, Mortimer Street

 Uncle Fred's doorway

 BT Tower

 University College Hospital

St Pancras