Visitors

 

VISITORS AT ENDCLIFFE VALE

by me

“We cannot read, we cannot write

Here is my daughter, one of twelve

We are the world’s lost wandering tribe

And camp outside of Chesterfield.”

She sold me a handmade tablecloth

She told me lots of flattering things

And quite a lot of truth

You’re under threat you wandering tribe

From Social Workers, Council Plans, and Gypsy Sites

But miraculously you both sit there

True Romany

You cannot read, you cannot write.

I wrote this poem so many years ago - during the time when my parents were enjoying their own retirement. About once a year this small Romany lady with her watchful little daughter would come to the bungalow. My mother always asked them in and offered them tea and biscuits, but they would never come inside, as the mother said that they were always suspected of stealing - stereotyped as thieves.

And sadly she does have a point. I once, also many years ago, worked on a building site where a Romany lad was employed for a while. He was sacked, accused of pilfering. Yet the pilfering continued after he left, and, I suspect, had been going on well before he arrived.

So, respecting their fears, we always had our tea together outside in my parents' garden - had a good chat - and we always bought something. (Though NOT "lucky" white heather. Jehovah asks us to avoid all such things.)

I don't know if the expression "gypsy sites" is used now, but it was back when I wrote the poem. But I note I have not mentioned it in a positive way anyway. It seemed somehow a contradiction in terms. And hopefully Social Workers are more empathetic now than they were back then.

Yet people do need to be able to read and write. It is so important. After all, our Creator, Jehovah, left his word, his guide, for us in written form. So I wish there could be a way to help all children become literate without taking them away from their parents, or forcing them into a school system where they will be bullied.

The photo I have chosen for this blog is from Col's photo gallery, as usual, and is of a Ken Reah painting of Endcliffe Park. The artist was obsessed by the park for a while, its light and shade, and all its seasons. Before he died, he was making installation art for the garden. He had already sold one piece, and one of his creations still stands in the bungalow garden.

I finally have my scan arranged - in February. Not bad, so thank you NHS.

We saw Jacks on Friday morning and talked about old times - this time about Col's first meeting with her in Spain, when she and Bruce took him to see the gorge at Ronda. And I saw the nurse at the surgery for results of the tests - not perfect, but not bad, keep on with what I am doing basically - then we saw the audiologist via a bit of shopping in Rustingon.

The minimal amount of walking required took me to my limits - very painful and difficult. I try not to think about how much I loved walking, but look ahead to the moment when - if I am there! - I will be able to walk and run about once again, one of the many wonderful things that will happen when God's Kingdom is ruling over the earth:

At that time the eyes of the blind will be opened,

And the ears of the deaf will be unstopped.

At that time the lame will leap like the deer,

And the tongue of the speechless will shout for joy.

For waters will burst forth in the wilderness,

And streams in the desert plain.

- Isaiah 35:5,6