The Winter Book Is it the most wonderful time of the year?
Table of CONTENTS
Introduction To Winter
4
A Change In Direction
10
Traditions
26
Festive Taste: Ginger Bread Biscuits
48
Mothers Mince Pies
59
Seasonal Confusion
66
TWB 4
ALL THINGS
DECEMBER
A WINTER WARMER Sometimes we have to hear other people’s stories to learn more about our own. This book is a winter warmer‌ an
honest one at that.
A Change In Direction A Personal Journey from North to South
TWB 10
P
airs, groups, units, duo, words I wish described me, words I wish described my life and words in which I dream, reflected this cold, bitter and never ending season. The reality is:Singularis my description; there is just I and I alone. Nobody else except me. I used to travel with my Flock, in every possible direction; we were never apart, in fact, always a part of something; part of a team, which overflowed with care and reassurance. We were meant to glide peacefully in unison, yet with a change of direction. I was the Singular one in my flock - on my journey, south. I was on an intriguing adventure, one that would give me an array of exhilarating opportunities and differentiation.
Maybe I am on my own now, in this mass of clouded, misted air but resting calmly in my mind is the thought that soon my eyes will by magnetised on to the set of another and there, a new flock will start to blossom. Minutes, Hours, Days, Weeks and Months after the land the positive expectation that was indented in my mind, soon subsided and turned
grey.
I was promised so much… that ‘so much’ stands here in concrete in glossy, shiny glass, in sparkling lit up parks, in bustling streets that sing. But it isn’t enough for me to feel a sense of belonging amongst the seven million other faces, which I see, starring. How can an area so large and so full of life be decaying and isolating? London, the city of dreams and ambition, you’re not playing fair, I’m not walking with you; I’m walking behind you. I’m not playing with you; I’m playing against you. I’m not travelling to you; I’m travelling from you. Is it you, London…or
is it me?
Traditions Seventy-five winters all with a story to tell
TWB 26
Maisy Horry
You can learn so much over a cup of tea‌ Maisie Horry, a 83 year old lady Brought up in Heckington, Lincolnshire who holds the memories of 83 winters all different in there own right. Some magically spent as an innocent child, some spent during the war and some simply enjoyed with her family which expanded and changed from just siblings, a mother and father, to a husband, a daughter and then to grand daughters all bringing something a little different and special to the cold season. After spending an afternoon with Maisie it was clear that her home is a exhibition space of her life, not only does she have the belongings of your average 83 year old home owner, her home is full of memories and gems that she has collected over the years. These items are not things to Maisie they are stories, memories and traditions.
A home full of memories and traditions
Every item has a tale
December 1937 Mr Goose And I
C
hristmas morning, we received a rowdy, piercing gift from the farmer, a plump pearly bundle with a bold, apricot beak, which let out an emotive awakening whilst entering our humble home. Not long after I laid eyes on the glorious bird, it had disappeared! I followed the nasal depth of his honks, and finally discovered him, deposited on a wooden slab with his webbed feet indented with wrapped string, his graceful neck and free wings trapped amongst the confining barriers. Dad stood over the bird, elevating his blade in in the sky, dominating the goose’s life with his shadow. The Goose and I caught eyes for a split second; it was as if we were trying to communicate, without having the words or the time and then, quickly, the noisy thoughts submitted to silence. I briskly scuttled back to the kitchen and moments later; Dad dragged Mr Goose in and slumped his surrendered body on to the woven cloth. This was the moment where my two sisters and I, were recruited as chief goose- pluckers! Six small hands stretched out and delved amongst the innocent feathers. I could feel them cram themselves in between my fingers, all huddled together hiding from the unknown. I wanted to calm and comfort the body by nestling my warm fingers against his rapidly cooling skin. I looked up at my parents, looked back at Mr Goose, shut my eyes tightly, curled my fingers in unison and nipped the silky fluff. I gripped, tugged and PLUCKED!
I gripped, tugged and Plucked!
December 1943 Rations… Just Rations
T
oo much! Put that back! Are phrases that have become
engraved sharply in my mind. A wishfultime ago I took for granted the privilege of attending the local shop with the choice of taste, portion size, and variety. That choice was stolen from us and replaced by a small book with the word, ‘RATION’ mockingly printed in colossal capital letters. The decisions I once had (and unknowingly adored) was unfairly snatched from my hands, in to the grip of a dark, joyless, harmful man. His skin was rotten to the core, peeling as if it had only ever experienced the harsh effects of winter. He filled the air with a strong scent of decaying vermin, abandoned under the scorching sun. Glancing at him was disturbing. His face plastered in a charcoal cloak, draped over his mindless head, the ties rested on the empty part of his chest where his heart should lay. This man is cruel, inhumane and bitter. This man is War. War stole our rights, our freedom and our Christmas. My family were extremely lucky. We lived in the country and we grew produce, which was ours; it did not belong to the little restricting ration book. Christmas may not have been the same during war’s presence, but it was the perfect celebration to use our faith, to let it shine and to give it power and depth to defeat the evil, hurtful man, War.
December 2015 My First Special Christmas Gift
I
met my George in 1952, a true gentlemen, with a vivacious sense of humour. I should have known after months of the committed bike rides and letters that I would have 63 precious years enjoying his company,bound together with golden, solid rings; not just by law, but by heart; I had found someone who I wanted to share every moment of every season of the year with over and over again. George did prefer light, long days filled with the warming sun, although he really did flourish during winter. It was the magic of the season, it delved under his skin and evaporated through him in every word, laugh, breath and thought - so did the whisky! As the winters went on, they became damaged and lifeless, they were decaying like traditions. Sprit and faith had invisibly faded - and so did George. He was moving further and further away from life. Until one year we didn’t hear one carol, or one prayer. Instead, we heard cold stillness and I knew winter, as I knew it was over. This December, I have longed for past years, scribbling out many Christmas cards after writing our united names and making two cups of tea instead of one. However, when the rain pours, I recall the outrageous moaning, when the robins start to tweet, I remember the observation and when Christmas Day arrives, I remember my first gift, but what George never realised was I received my gift years before Christmas‌ him.
The Singing Ballerina The Gold clasp is securely shut I am surrounded by darkness My body is twisted and tangled There I am sworn to silence My dress is torn and creased I promise this is not my shyness It could be days it could be weeks But I will wait all intertwined it cannot be that harmless
Silent I hear the footsteps, I fell the warmth Someone is holding me The clasp starts to rise And with a surprise, I spring up with almighty energy On the count, 1,2,3 I twirl and spin and let out an almighty sing
My jewellery box song,will now start to begin
Though many of my childhood traditions no longer thrive during this time of year, in this modern day and age...I continue to display and pass them on to my family before they are lost
forever.
‘Tis The Season To Be Jolly’
Festive taste
Ginger Bread biscuits Ingredients 350g Plain flour 1 tsp Bicarbonate of soda 2 tsp Ground ginger 1 tsp Ground cinnamon 125g Light brown sugar 1 Free range egg 4 tbsp Golden syrup
To decorate Icing sugar
TWB 48
1.To start with sift the flour, bicarbonate of soda, ginger and cinnamon in to a bowl. Stop for a second. Smell. 2. Continue by adding the butter, unfortunately if you do not have a food processor you become that great kitchen machinery. Blend with fingers or food processor until mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. 3.In a separate bowl (yes sorry, more washing up) lightly beat the egg and the golden syrup and then add to the mix. Use the processor or a traditional wooden spoon to mix, until the mixture has all come together. 4.Then lightly dust your surfaces in flour, feel free to pretend it’s snowing. Then knead the mixture quickly until smooth, its only quick (not a workout.) Then wrap in Clingfilm for 15 minutes. 5.Baking is hard work-Relax 6.Roll the dough to ¼ of its thickness and cut away with your shape cutters. Then place these on to a baking tray, make sure there is a gap between each shape otherwise you get blobs. 7.Bake these delights for at 180c for 12-15 minutes; allow them to cool before decorating. 8.When cooled lightly dust with icing sugar. 9.Finally, you could share these but I recommend that maybe they could be just for you…you made them after all.
Method A little bit of spice and all things nice
Our Troubles will be out of sight
Mothers Mince Pies
A
s a child I did not like mince pies
The thought of the fruit made my insides collide I hated the pastry and the brown seeping goo It was Santa’s treat that helped him get through
TWB 59
I look in the mirror with wrinkles on my face And think about all the winters that I did waste Much older and much wiser now I wish that she were still around I should have given her a chance To let the flavours waltz and dance
As a child I did not like mince pies Things have now changed What a surprise
Seasonal Confusion Winter from the other side of the world
TWB 66
High street, Flitton, Bedfordshire
Dear Mum, The blossoms that once were shy and enclosed, are unpeeling with confidence. The air has been warming. On its journey, it calmly brushes past my skin leaving a soothing souvenir that I wish I could send to you. Evenings are light but arid and full of time, the clock in the sky ticks for longer here, until eventually the sun departs the busy shift and rest’s before the golden morning rises.
Dear Eleanor, I have noticed a lack of colour. The flower buds are panicked awaiting a stormy eruption, hiding under the damp soil for protection. The leaves have descended in mood, their strength to cling turns weak, leaving behind naked branches that eerily reach out in to the frosty, crystallised air. Evenings are becoming darker and darker earlier and earlier; the sun must be in a rush to make it over to you.
Dear Mum, November has nearly left and the television appears to be broken; it is bare, the music is plain and everyone is normal, quiet and content. The city has become suspiciously peaceful; it has lost its spark and life has now charged to the coast. It doesn’t feel right. Am I blind to the sparkle, the warmth and the merry, or is it just different here?
Dear Eleanor, It is December. Our TV is full of iced snow, imagination and festivity. The music has acquired a jingle in its step and everyone is manically rushed yet oddly jolly. The fog has completely masked the outdoors and blocked all light, apart from the city, which gleams for miles even all the way to our small, humble village.
Dear Mum, It has arrived for me - but not for you yet. As the sunny beams rage through the windows, reflecting on to my face, I see the lines of cards all neatly aligned with images of what I know, my home and my winter, small-hatched houses hidden by mist and snow. The weather, the people, the food and the season are different. So much is unusual, but then again it was going to be without you.
Dear Eleanor, Moments later from you, we had our Christmas. Our cards lined up on the window sill mirroring the outdoors; it was simplicity at its finest. Everything was the same here, the oversized bird that was jammed in the oven by your father, the scent of cinnamon and orange cloves, the competitive stack of cards dealt out by your cousin. However, Christmas was not Christmas this year. The traditions were the same but your chair was untouched, your cocoa mug empty and your cracker un-pulled. You were absent.
‘Winteron the other side of the world was an incredible experience However nothing will come close to winter as I know it in my village home with my lovingfamily’
All Is Calm All Is Bright
The END Id it the most wonderful time of the year