Open Writing

Once the harvest has been dispersed, autumn loses its charm for me. Those autumn leaves which pass by my window may be beloved by lyricists – but have they ever tried to sweep them up? Now the family are all back at their desks, I feel as divested as the leafless trees.

Although most evenings find us draped around the fireplace in various states of idleness, there is a seasonal ‘Do it yourself’ spirit stirring within us. I fondly communicated this to my son the other evening when, unable to reach his coffee without moving his eyeballs, he asked me to pass it. He was almost annoyed into blinking his eyelids, ‘Are you too lazy to hand me my coffee,’ he demanded.

But I firmly believe in a ‘do it yourself’ attitude.

When I was first married I could not even change a plug, but long nights sitting with a baby in one hand and a plug in the other waiting my overworked husbands’ return soon had me extending my electrical education. My penknife and I became inseparable, except on washday when a sharp wallop with a rolling pin seemed more effective, until one morning found me embarrassingly hysterical on my neighbour’s doorstep. The wringers on the washer had snapped menacingly back at me and had fallen to pieces.

People used to think my kitchen was an extension of the printing works next door, on wash days it sounded just like their machine room!

But it is never too late to join the independent enthusiasts. Libraries are lined with helpful books on most subjects. Rowland Parker became interested in his Tudor cottage’s history; it became so fascinating he turned his discoveries into a best seller, ‘The Commonstream.’

A friend of ours built his own house; another is tackling his drive and garage, all in their ‘spare time.’

Television showed us a glimpse into the Royal Academy of Arts’ annual exhibition of paintings. One widow whose paintings were rejected looked philosophically towards next year when she hoped to try again. All hopefully building their own dreams.

My father has always been an optimistic ‘do-it-yourself’ addict. No job is considered too difficult. He once tackled the marathon task of dividing a bedroom. This did not please my mother much, as he made this decision at 6.30 am one Sunday morning while she was still asleep. By 7.30 am she was encased in plaster and fully awake, looking more like Tutankhamun’s ‘mummy’ than mine.

But often amateur designs have a strength their appearance denies. Last year an expertly designed greenhouse sprang up on the land behind my father’s, making his home-made effort look like a patchwork aquarium. A violent storm ignored my father’s and blew all the glass out of his rival's!

During the war ‘do-it-yourself’ was disguised as ‘make do and mend.’ Before my father was shunted off to Africa he was kept busy decorating rooms with a can of distemper and a rolled rag. My mother was decorating my sister and me with knitting. We were smothered in knit and purl ones, vests, socks, jumpers, skirts; we even had 4-ply slippers. One advantage of the paper shortage, knickers patterns must have been unavailable.

My friend’s mother could not knit so she made do with trimming everything with fur. We must have looked a cosy couple as we trudged up the hill to school.

We spent autumn afternoons making dolls’ clothes, with the aid of a ‘rag bag.’ I cut them out while my sister sewed them. A friend of Mum's called one afternoon and unfortunately placed her hat on the table. While they chatted I snipped.

By the time she was ready to collect her hat, our dolls were sporting grey felt skirts and silk lining blouses. We all searched diligently for the hat, unaware of the ‘mistake.’ When the crown's rim was eventually discovered she fortunately saw the funny side of the situation, but I do not remember her calling again.

I have been struggling for a while with DIY piano lessons. I started on the guitar, but someone keeps hiding it. The piano is immovable. Unable to find any music to match my unique style – there seems to be something wrong with my left hand, it only plays waltztime – I compose my own. It’s easy really, I just make it up as I pom along, quickening the walztime accordingly. In fact sometimes my left hand does not know what my right hand is playing, but why should it I ask myself?

At times my compositions evoke a familiar ‘horror film’ atmosphere, a sort of chilled expectancy, as if any minute I may break into a melody. This may sound immodest, but when our Sunday school pianist was on holiday, my rousing piano recital of ‘When Mary Had a Baby’ shortened the collection march succinctly.

There was none of the usual football behaviour among our primary donators. The pennies were in the box and they were back in their places almost before I had finished the introduction. Their silent obedience was a joy to behold. I feel tempted to learn the chorus. The family regard my piano playing as a mixed blessing, at least I cannot sing while I am playing . . . yet.