Forget
Me Not
By
Dominic Horton
Last
week was another busy week which included Tater's funeral, a day with
my dear son Kenteke, a shared reading session of poetry for residents
of a care home who suffer from dementia, a trip to the picturesque
Telford campus of the University of Wolverhampton, being force fed
Enville Ale from the cask by Sleepy Tom Parker at his place on
Saturday (I didn't complain) and more job related shenanigans. Not
forgetting quiz night at the Flagon & Gorses, where the Pirate
and I were proud as peacocks not to finish last. As far as pub
quizzes are concerned it is usually a case of me being first up the
bar, last in the quiz. The only question I usually answer right is
when Chilli Willy behind the bar asks me what I want to drink and I
get that wrong half of the time.
 |
| Jonty Von Rossi in the Flagon & Gorses |
Talking
of pub matters (and pubs do of course matter) I was
disappointed to hear that my good friend Jonty Von Rossi is soon to
cease to become landlord of The Swan on Shell Corner after taking the
controversial decision to emigrate to Devon. What Devon has to offer
- other than fine beaches, a balmy climate, fabulous cream teas and
stunning National Parks – gawd only knows. It is a long way for
Jonty to go to avoid suffering the indignities of watching
West Bromwich Albion but if that is what it takes, then fair enough.
Jonty's imminent departure was a good a reason as any for a little
drink so I met him on Sunday in The Swan and The Frymaster General
dragged himself down the motorway from Stoke to join us. Within
seconds of being at the bar the Frymaster, true to type, had sniffed
out the murkiest scrumpy on offer – if you can see through the pint
it is not for the Frymaster.
On
Monday I wasn't drinking murky cider but a crystal clear Enville
brewery Cherry Blonde in The Whitley after Tater's funeral, where so
many turned up to pay their respects to my dear friend that a great
number of mourners were locked out of the chapel. My pall bearing and
speech giving duties went well enough and it was a relief when they
were over, though it was a great honour to be asked to play my part
in the proceedings. Pall bearing is a particularly nerve wracking
task as I always fear that I will trip up and knock the coffin over,
or some such calamity, even though these days the coffin tends to be
on a trolley to make things easier. And writing and orating a speech
for a funeral is a much more difficult undertaking than doing it for
a wedding, giving the somberness and sensitivity of the
occasion. When writing a best man's speech you only need to throw in
a few cheap one liners and it gets the tipsy gathering tittering, so
you are off and running. But that tactic cannot be equally applied to
writing a eulogy or a tribute, so you have to tread with great care
and delicacy.
I
was a bit delicate on Tuesday as we had a few to send Tater off. I
performed my usual trick of not eating much despite Sarah laying on a
magnificent buffet and when I finally got home I didn't have the
heart to wake a frozen pizza that lay sleeping in the freezer – the
pizza must have had a hard day because it was flat out. The irony of
me not eating was that a food bank collection that Sarah had
organised for the funeral drew in enough food to feed the whole of
Halesowen.
 |
| The Whitley, Halesowen. |
A
fry up on Tuesday morning with my dear son Kenteke at the wonderful
Litebites cafe round the corner from my Codger Mansions home remedied
the position and propelled me into the rest of the week, which saw me
reading poetry to care home residents with dementia in
Tipton on Wednesday as part of my volunteering with The Shared
Reading Company. I didn't know quite what to expect from the
experience but I was keen to go to find out what it was like, on
invitation from my colleague Nuala, who runs the shared reading
groups at the home. The care home was a big place, like a village
almost, divided into different sections that cater for the needs of
the residents.
When
we arrived Nuala started talking to residents that she knows to see
how they are. Nuala asked one seated lady, J___, how she is and she
enthusiastically greeted Nuala, “Oooooh, hello luvva, it's so
lovely to see you chick, how am ya?” Nuala said, “You know who I
am then J___?” J___ said, “No love, aye got a clue.” As I was
standing round like a spare part I started to introduce myself and
talk to the residents too. A study found that care home residents who
have dementia on average only spend 2 minutes a day participating in
meaningful social interaction, so a bit of chat, even with me, might
be valuable. Nuala spoke with one man, P___ , and when they had
finished he moved away in his wheelchair to watch television. Nuala
said to me, in hushed tones, “He's a lovely chap P_____, he's in
here but there's nothing wrong with him.” I looked at P____ and saw
he has no legs. I looked back at Nuala and we both laughed at her
statement – what she meant of course was that he doesn't have
dementia, he is perfectly lucid, but for some reason he is in the
dementia based home.
 |
| The Frymaster General, by request of Toby In-Tents. |
I
talked to T_____. He asked me, “what time am yow gooin' to bed?”
“I don't know T___, maybe 11.30.” “That's late.” “Well, I
shall probably go to the pub this evening.” “They woe let me goo
to the pub! No chance! And the minute yow goo, they'll put me t' bed,
I'm tellin' ya.” I assumed that T___'s last comment wasn't a true
reflection of what would happen (as it was only early in the
afternoon) but I did desperately want to take him out to the pub for
a drink, even if it was just for one pint. It would probably do T___
the world of good.
Nuala
and I read poems to the group of six residents and stopped for
discussion after each piece. Some of the group gave their thoughts on
the poems, some didn't, S___ just smiled. She smiled a lot, it was
lovely to see. After a poem about gardening (The Glory of the
Garden by Rudyard Kipling) one resident, L___, became very
animated and told us all about the large garden that she used to have
at her home and what she use to do in it. L____ spoke with
energy and she had a light in her eyes, recalling memories from her
life.
B___
spoke a few words about the poems after each reading and was even
able to read one piece aloud. Later Nuala told me that at first B___
didn't say a word at the sessions but slowly over the weeks she has
begun to contribute more. Another lady, D___, sat expressionless
throughout most of the session and didn't look at the poetry sheets
in front of her. But towards the end of the readings she picked up
the poem in question and started to follow Nuala's reading,
accurately as well, as I could tell she was reading the correct lines
and she turned the page at the right place.
 |
| Litebites cafe, Halesowen. |
The
shared reading session was the last one of the season as the funding
has come to an end and even though Nuala has re-applied to the
funders, with a view to starting a new round of sessions in the
autumn, there is no guarantee the money will be forthcoming. As we
left Nuala admitted to feeling a bit sad, as she won't be back next
week. I said I feel sad too, even though it's my first visit – who
will read poems to the residents next week? Nuala handed a bound
folder of poetry to an employee of the home who is known to her, in
the hope that she will read to the residents - I sincerely hope that
she does but given the pressures of her job she might not have the
time or the inclination.
The
residents of the home deserve not to be simply forgotten. And my dear
departed friend Tater will always be in my memory. And even though
he's going to Devon I won't forget Jonty Von Rossi either – mainly
because I want to visit him for a free holiday.
©
Dominic Horton, July 2015.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
