never too late

Far too many people boast talk about taking up hobbies late in life and blithely claim that it’s “never too late to follow your dreams”.

As a little girl I don’t think I had many dreams. I certainly didn’t have many original ones. I know that I dreamed of having thick, raven black locks, like Tiger Lily in Peter Pan, Cleopatra, or the Queen of Sheba in the illustration in my Bible. But although I don’t think I ever actually read Anne of Green Gables, I know what happened when she dyed her hair and I never wanted to take the risk.
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small blues

Some fifty plus years ago, when I was a little girl, my mother made my brother a butterfly net out of a bamboo garden cane, a hoop of wire and an old net curtain. I don’t know how often he used it, but I suspect it wasn’t that often.

Whether he tired of it in the first few weeks, or whether it was when it came out of the shed on the second summer and he was off on his bike in the park with his mates, somehow, I managed to inherit it.
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fill in the details

I wrote yesterday in “monsters and fairies” about stories that parents tell to their children about events that happen in the children’s lives before they are really old enough to form personal memories. Those stories can take on a life of their own and become formative parts of the child’s story.

There are other personal stories that parents tell their children, of course, including ones they recall about their own childhoods. And then there’s a step further back along the chain to the stories that our parents were told about their early childhoods by their own parents.
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monsters & fairies

There are stories that parents tell their impressionable children that remain with them for their whole lives. I’m not sure why I’m feeling nostalgic, but I’ve been remembering two such stories, one from my mother and one from my father.

Both are set in the dim and distant past, when we lived in Scotland.
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father’s day gift

I’ve never really celebrated Father’s Day. I don’t think anyone did when I was a small child and then, when it became more well-known in the UK, it was considered an American import and looked down on by my parents’ generation. Now, though, it’s almost impossible to ignore. Even when email newsletters offer the chance to opt out of Father’s Day updates, it seeps through on social media, in the news, and in shelves stacked with bottles at the supermarket.
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