My grandparents farmed in Atwick about 30 miles south of you Wendy and the first four years of my life living on their farm are the foundation of my existence. I’m trying to write a novel at the moment based on my mother‘s life in Hull during the Second World War - so family names and family stories are at the forefront of my mind at the moment. So much of what you say in this lovely piece resonates with me. Thank you.
There’s a farm in my family story as well, though none of my relatives worked the land. My parents lived in a caravan parked in a field of apple trees, in a caravan they called “The Tin House”, for a few years in the 1950s. It was the happiest time of my mother’s life and later on, when I was around and my father was long dead, it because a lost paradise, an Eden that could be revisited only in dream and memory. I’ve never quite been able to explain my intense feeling of the place being part of my identity, until now - you express it so perfectly as a songline, a place sewn into the fabric of our stories, a link trivial or unknown to everyone else, but very significant to us.
Dads are such rich sources of writing. I love reading dad stories and poems. There is the memory of dads in them mixed with memories of childhood. This is a lovely example, Wendy. I really enjoyed it.
My dad was evacuated to North Yorkshire from Hull as a young boy during the Second World War. He had lots of Happy memories, many of which involved helping out on farms. Thanks for sharing.
Beautiful, Wendy, thanks so much sharing. You've evoked my own memories of childhood drives up Sutton Bank in horrible step-dad's crap cars - the shame of being laughed at or pitied by other families in healthy cars, the fear of utter collapse, one way or another, or slithering backwards. Plenty for me to process there! I'm glad your memories are less dark.
My grandparents farmed in Atwick about 30 miles south of you Wendy and the first four years of my life living on their farm are the foundation of my existence. I’m trying to write a novel at the moment based on my mother‘s life in Hull during the Second World War - so family names and family stories are at the forefront of my mind at the moment. So much of what you say in this lovely piece resonates with me. Thank you.
There’s a farm in my family story as well, though none of my relatives worked the land. My parents lived in a caravan parked in a field of apple trees, in a caravan they called “The Tin House”, for a few years in the 1950s. It was the happiest time of my mother’s life and later on, when I was around and my father was long dead, it because a lost paradise, an Eden that could be revisited only in dream and memory. I’ve never quite been able to explain my intense feeling of the place being part of my identity, until now - you express it so perfectly as a songline, a place sewn into the fabric of our stories, a link trivial or unknown to everyone else, but very significant to us.
'a link trivial or unknown to everyone else, but very significant to us.' beautifully put.
Dads are such rich sources of writing. I love reading dad stories and poems. There is the memory of dads in them mixed with memories of childhood. This is a lovely example, Wendy. I really enjoyed it.
My dad was evacuated to North Yorkshire from Hull as a young boy during the Second World War. He had lots of Happy memories, many of which involved helping out on farms. Thanks for sharing.
So evocative Thank you.
Just gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.
Beautiful, Wendy, thanks so much sharing. You've evoked my own memories of childhood drives up Sutton Bank in horrible step-dad's crap cars - the shame of being laughed at or pitied by other families in healthy cars, the fear of utter collapse, one way or another, or slithering backwards. Plenty for me to process there! I'm glad your memories are less dark.
Lovely. Those stories, so personal, are part of what makes us who we are. J x
Thank you x
Wonderful writing. Thanks Wendy for sharing it. X
Thank you x