Worzel here- Down home on Wharf Street, always random, season of the year rarely an issue, we enjoy the brief and spectacular “Irish Sunset'”, a term that Godfrey coined. For perhaps five minutes at eve the wending street of heritage brick buildings is washed in a brilliant orange glow.

The worn out grass and trees of the tent camp below our window are lit the most vivid green. Campers pause, look skyward and west cross the harbor.The cops and by-law officers relax. The young woman serving tables in the corner patio bar rests her tray, shares delight in the beauty until the boss barks her back to work…

Folks eating in the cool, dark sushi-bar miss out. Even the silvery fittings on the carriage horses’ harness glint in the light as she waits at the cross walk. City workers cease banging trash cans. Leaning from my window, I cannot hear “10 Men”, a lost soul who paces the waterfront most days shouting- “I am 10 men, I am the federal Government!”….IO Men is there, relaxing on the park steps, ever present plastic cup in hand, basking in the peace of “Irish Sunset”…

Time waits for us, despite all we remain awe inspired.

Wrote Godfrey on the subject- From the age I could waddle, nappy dragging behind, Grandma swung me to the sky, I was cherished and held, I loved how the baking in her warm cottage smelled, her songs as she worked, stepping out in her old frock to dance, never cranky or tired. Ma complained, “She is a drunken old sot” But she spoke in rhyme, taught me to stay awe inspired…

I keep a worn photo of the long past elders, deep in my suitcase where it stays flat and dry, they said Grandpa had scars inside, deep where no one can see. A limp in one leg, mild disrespect for authority. He was a fisher- job in itself awe inspiring, he took us out when I was big enough to float, set nets and bait lines. “Go when wind and tide tells you”, Godfrey, never turn your back on the swell, always respect the sea”. Grandpa said little else, yet never took a day on the water for granted, wisdom that awe inspired me.

Stocky legs deep in wet grass he stands, dappled back steaming dry after summer shower, he is wary. Eight years old, carrot in hand I am walking out to my new pony. He need not worry, for the hand that holds the treat, wiped clean on my shirt, will never hurt him.

The glossy coat I keep brushed free of dust and burr, will give way to winter guard hairs and fuzzy whisker.The adventures we share as I warm cold hands neath thick mane, bed the pony down in clean deep straw…awakens the poet growing in me, carries us places that inspire and awe.

I grew up believing in staying awe inspired- “Given to woolgathering, Godfrey,  I regret will amount to nothing”. Twas written in a letter sent from school to my old Ma. I strolled home most days,seeking treasure along the hedge row, from a distance could hear Ma shouting, and the music when my sister Alice played the piano.

I left home for vagabonding, was once left on my own with a heavy iron anvil, and two angry cats in the same box. Was on a remote track, with nebulous shade from one of those odd trees rooted in rock. We had lightened the load of the traveler’s horse drawn wagon, to spare him a uphill pull, feeling his oats Paddy took off at a trot, leaving me with the cats and anvil for to walk.

In my hitching career, was once picked up, the same day by three separate chaps named Verne in same make of car, a brown sedan. Never so welcome was the distant speck of gold, came Heidi, who drove a yellow Bongo Van.

Without question or qualm Heidi stopped, drove myself, the cats and anvil, following tracks and signs of horse to where they finally ended at our camp riverside. Inspired, and in awe of gypsy life, she stayed a month with us, befriended a horse who disliked everybody, down the Rakaia River they would ride.

For she grew up dreaming of being a hippie, defying, horrifying the parents who named her Heidi…Good on ya Heidi, long may you seek the wild mushroom, glean the wisdom from stream side plants, long may you live in joy and awe inspired, and on the bluffs of East Sooke may you dance.

Some thoughts from Godfrey..


THE PATHWAYS OF ALICE- from Alice and Worzel

Godfrey’s mildly eccentric sister, Alice, had “aquired” an ancient typewriter, delighted, despite the fact it was locked on capitals, and missing the letters “Q”, and “D”, Alice was only inspired to write more. The rubbish she churned out, and sent me to be included in “The Collected Wisdom of Godfrey”!….neatly addressed, empty envelopes, candy wrappers, the contents of her waste paper basket. Oddly, though there were times, as I sorted “The Classical works of Alice in Couplet and Prose”, she showed me the good hidden deep in the beets of her heart, very deep in the heart of Alice. 

PUNISH ME WITH HERRING-from Alice-Punish me with herring, sit me at a wobbly table, fill my bath with things gelatinous, turn the lights out, lock the door. Place me on a school bus full of teenage girls singing. Just don’t tell me that you love me anymore.

Punish me with herring, ban me from guffaws and pranking, tell me I must wee now in the hedge over the street.Replace the greasy chips on which I gorge myself with celery, but oh, never say aloud that you love me. Punish me with herring, put the fish oil in my tea, but oh never let on that you love me.

NEBUCHADNEZZAR- From Alice- I pulled my small brother, by the shirt collar, down the church basement steps to Sunday School. “Do not embarass me, do not scream or holler, do not grizzle over beets or wet yourself, hang up your hat and coat, or risk being smote”.

Godfrey was happy, promised tea and cream cake after, sat stoic through scary stories, of harlots and lions, he was only four. Happy up until teacher, beak like a parrot, yelled out Nebuchadnezzar, for some reason the name made Godfrey bolt in terror….

Perhaps as it had no Welsh translation…I tried to catch him, but all I grabbed was kilt, as full tilt Godfrey fled. Screaming, good shoes clatting down the hallway, out the doors, past the Renshaw twins who were digging a hole, for someone newly gotten dead.

The Renshaw twins downed shovels, and joined in the chase, although they were well past sixty. Our nasty Uncle Lou guffawed by the font, he was always very mean with beets to Godfrey. Ma cuffed me oer the head with her purse, like it was my fault for Godfrey’s terror. He was found on a tractor, Swansea bound miles away, all because of Nebuchadnezzar…

THE HAUNTED THUMB- From Alice –I formed a thumb in art class, paper mache’, painted it in shades of leprosy, gangrene and grey. Teacher made it clear, she was not proud of me. But the haunted thumb served useful purpose, the brief time it lived, tormenting little Godfrey.

It emerged from his dinner, Haggis and Tatties, from my fish and Chips wrapper when he thought I’d not notice he had pinched more than his share. The haunted thumb was moonlit night, placed on his window sill with care. And tied to a fish line, chased him bawling to our Ma up the stair.

I knew our parents, despaired of never having a normal child after Godfrey, and Ma, when the thumb turned up on her knitting bag, disposed of it with a toss into the fire, sorry end to my profound, creativity.

TUESDAYS WITHOUT BRAD- From Alice- The shoe store echos, it’s lonely keening, it is Tuesday, oh where is my co-worker Brad?. Even the cob-webs hang lowly and sad. No fun in the dust I waft over display, no Brad’s great manly feet, to get in my way. No hard boiled eggs, to smell at midday.

We two share chips, all greasy and brown, and cold lemonade to rinse them down, and once at lunch, I lay in a planter box, pretending I had died. Elderly lady hat on the Marigolds, sensible shoes hanging over the side. Twas comfy, until I realized, no one passing wished attempt to revive me. Only Brad came running- chips falling, calling oh Alice- do not leave I will save thee!.

With “Kiss of Life”, courtesy of dear Brad, I emerged from the planter box, picking bits off my skirt so coy and shy. We oft played that prank on Tuesdays, with Brad in the plant soil, pretending to die. Without Brad, a more subdued Alice am I…

THE CHARMING BUILDERS- From Alice- A disgruntled customer hurled a clog, apparently it did not fit, through the front glass of the shop where I work, made a grand mess of it. I drew the short straw, waited for the builders, to come early morning and board up the crack. Oh, the foul language that I, Alice heard, while sitting alone in the back.

I learned many stories of how women behave in a place called “Nantucket”. Learned how to pull off an injury scam- “Drill a hole in yer effin hand, fall thirty feet to the ground when the boss aint the feck around”.  And Oscar, oh Oscar, you romantic you, had Deborah and her cousin at the company Bar-B-Que. And Nick, it seems, Deborah grilled his sausage to.

A dull, hours  quiet, seemed the lads brought the wrong screw, returned after lunch break , guffawing and cursing. Such charming chaps, the air was blue, fixing the window someone hurled a clog through.

GRAY WAS HIS PONY- From Alice-When summer wafts, as manure will, in the air, and in my memory journey there, I recall my dear brother Godfrey, and his pot-bellied, grubby gray pony.

He was dappled as if the creator of all things equine, threw white paint at a scudding storm cloud. Idly scratching his ass on stone wall or gate, every school day patiently wait, pony waited for boy, or joining Beatrice’s black mare, in mutual grooming and fly swishing share, deep in the orchards shade.

A ruggedy thing, of Welsh Mountain breed, diluted a tad somewhat, Grubby disliked me  and if given the chance, blew on my blouse pony snot. His  forelock resembled our rickety Uncle  Hamish’s moth eaten toupee’, and in faded gray kilt was hard to tell, at times Godfrey from Grubby Pony on a snowy day.

Greedy thing to, with skinny legs, big feet, and uncanny penchant for cheek. Ma fed him raw beet bits in my “Bunnykins” bowl, I’d eaten from no other dish, since I learned to chew. She set the bowl down, Grubby stepped in it, the bowl given to me by Granny Dypew- crushed it was, beyond help or glue.

Godfrey’s brief life was spent in search of higher wisdom…I chose to pursue lesser wisdom, the daft and inane- this is my story- Alice be thy name.

GIVE ME A NUDGE- From Alice- Give me a Nudge, back onto the pathway when I stray into serious thought. Lest a day go by I do not recall Godfrey, my odd lost brother and the wisdoms he sought. Give me a Nudge, a reminder that the toilet seat you plastic wrap, may be the one on in haste you doth squat.

Give me a Nudge, as a reminder that my Ma and step dad Arthur, are too old for the Ukelele Chorus loud at dawn, how I will miss the bickering, and warm knitted socks when the two are gone.

Give me a Nudge, for the extra oyster he pretends not to want from the Chippy. When he shows up for a date, wearing “Winkle Picker Shoes”, a cravat, and faded flowered vest, kept since Nudge Giggleswick was a young hippie.

Give me a Nudge, showing me around his job, all day he places stickers on pill bottles, that read- Do Not Take With Milk Or Alcohol. “Nudge is our best sticker putter ever”, boss lady Miss Gooley smiles proudly.  Give me a Nudge, lest I stray from my Alice path, and under no circumstance- ever say aloud you love me.