Tag: Dementia

Judith Barrow’s Memories

‘The Memory is a poignant tale of love and hate in which you will feel every emotion experienced by Irene.’– Terry Tyler

Wonderful author of the Bestselling Haworth family saga, Judith Barrow, is launching her latest novel.  The Memory explores a ‘Mother and daughter tied together by shame and secrecy, love and hate.’ I can’t resist books with secrets and know Judith is an expert at weaving these into her narratives.  I invited Judith to tell me more about the background to The Memory because I know it is close to her heart and experience.

Much of the background of The Memory is taken from my own memories of when I was carer at different times in my life. With the support of my husband I’ve looked after two aunts. One who lived with us for thirty years before dementia took hold of her – and then, at the same time, her aunt, who came to us when the disease first made its presence known and she had no one else. The idea was that we found a care home for her in Pembrokeshire where we live, but she cried when we left her there. So we brought her home. Physically robust, she lived with us for twelve years. We were four generations under one roof and, looking back I don’t think it did our children any harm. Indeed I think it taught them empathy. And finding the humour in the chaos of living with someone with dementia far outweighed the sadness.

A portrait of Judith’s Auntie Olive who lived with Judith’s family for over thirty years.

I truly believe that the role of carer for a loved and respected relative with dementia is something that takes over both lives with unseen stealth. The disease steals away the person who affected until they gradually disappear. The carer increasingly and sometimes automatically takes on the role until their whole life revolves around the caring. And, mostly, it’s a mantle that’s taken on willingly.

But it’s hard.

During the years I was a carer I met others whose lives, despite help from any professional bodies, had become a constant round of tiredness and stress. And it was only when the trust was built up between us that the word ‘resentment’ would sometimes be voiced. But spoken of with shame, as though it was a reaction that had no place. After all, most of them were caring for a person who had been a constant presence in their lives as a cherished parent, relative, companion, partner. It was the carer’s time to give back the love – wasn’t it? They had no right to sometimes feel resentful. Or so they believed. I remember the relief to be able to admit it, to relax, to know I wasn’t alone. And to share stories of the ridiculous and bizarre situations we found ourselves in.

I’ve tried to show those two contrasting emotions in The Memory; love and yet resentment. But with Irene Hargreaves, the protagonist, hatred often rears its ugly head. All because on one dreadful memory.

Pots and Pans is the memorial where the Remembrance Services are held. It’s a memorial where memories are kept and/ or shared to the wind.

As a child, I escaped to a place known as Pots and Pans in Saddleworth.  Pots and Pans, quite high, windy and isolated, is the memorial where the Remembrance Services are held.  I used to climb with my first dog when I was eleven to get away from home. It’s where I used to chunter on about the unfairness of anything that was happening.  It’s a memorial where memories are kept and/ or shared to the wind. Well, that’s what I always thought. The dog was also a great listener!  This is the place where the bones of my books were constructed.

The Memory is a stand alone book about a woman, Irene Hargreaves, who is the career for her mother. One a dark evening in 2001 Irene stands by the side of her mother’s bed and knows it is time. For more than fifty years she has carried a secret around with her; a haunting memory she hasn’t even confided to her husband, Sam, a man she has loved and trusted all her life. But now she must act before he arrives home…

About Judith:

Wonderful author of The Memory and the bestselling Howarth family saga.

Judith Barrow,originally from Saddleworth, a group of villages on the edge of the Pennines,has lived in Pembrokeshire, Wales, for forty years.

She has an MA in Creative Writing with the University of Wales Trinity St David’s College, Carmarthen. BA (Hons) in Literature with the Open University, a Diploma in Drama from Swansea University and She has had short stories, plays, reviews and articles, published throughout the British Isles and has won several poetry competitions..

She is a Creative Writing tutor for Pembrokeshire County Council and holds private one to one workshops on all genres.

https://www.judithbarrow-author.co.uk/
https://judithbarrow.blogspot.com
https://twitter.com/judithbarrow77
https://www.facebook.com/judith.barrow.3
https://www.honno.co.uk/authors/b/judith-barrow/

Please see all my guests’ posts at Mail from the Creative Community and my website and blog at JessieCahalin.com.

A copy of my novel is available here.

No More Mulberries with Mary Smith

Ali Baba and Hussain Ali sharing a bowl of mulberries

I was intrigued when Mary Smith asked me if she could present an extract about Afghan food.  Always keen to learn more about food and other cultures, I invited Mary to present an extract from No More Mulberries. The feast of food is a treat for the senses.

This extract from No More Mulberries comes at the start of the book. Scots-born Miriam, her Afghan husband Dr Iqbal and the two children are finishing their evening meal. Miriam and Iqbal are arguing because he has arbitrarily cancelled the English classes she teaches to some of the village boys.

Mary Smith’s book, No More Mulberries

Extract:

Iqbal’s eyes narrowed and his voice was cool. ‘The subject is closed.’

About to protest, Miriam became aware the two children were still sitting in the room. For once, Ruckshana had fallen silent, gazing round-eyed at her father. Farid’s head was bowed and she couldn’t see his expression, but knew his face would have the closed, tight look it assumed whenever there the possibility of an argument. She’d wait until the children were in bed before continuing this discussion. Hoping to dispel the tension in the room she rose to her feet, saying, ‘Come on, Farid, you clear the plates while I bring the toot.’

Mantu

The children whooped as she placed a large basin heaped with a pyramid of mulberries – white, red, purple – on the cloth. Washed in icy cold well water the berries glistened like jewels in the light of the oil lamps. Everyone gathered round, busy fingers searching expertly for the choicest fruit. At last, Miriam sat back. ‘My favourite, favourite, fruit. I wish they were in season all year round. I’ll put some up to dry tomorrow. They’re not the same dried, though, with their chewy textures and …’ she groped for the word she wanted, shrugged, ‘dustiness. Right, you two,’ she continued, pointing at Ruckshana and Farid in turn, ‘hands and faced washed before you get a story.’

‘I’ll get them ready for bed and read to them,’ Iqbal said. ‘I don’t need to go out tonight.’ She gave him a fleeting smile in outward acceptance of what she understood was a peace offering, though inwardly she still seethed. It would take more than a bedtime story to make peace.

End of Extract

When I lived in Afghanistan I, like Miriam, loved mulberries and was always sorry when their short season ended, though by then it was time for apricots and peaches. It really made me understand the meaning of eating seasonally. Besides, with such a great variety of things to eat it was no hardship not to have apricots in December – fresh ones, that is, there were always dried ones, which were delicious soaked and poached and served with yoghurt for breakfast.

Ash prepared for cooking and the nan fresh from the tandoor. The heat in the tandoor is fearsome.

In No More Mulberries, Miriam worked in the remote, mountainous region of Hazara Jat, as I did. The daily fare is simple: rice with lentils, yoghurt and sometimes ash, which is handmade pasta. Afghanistan was on the Silk Route so benefited from fusion cuisine long before it was fashionable here. The pasta is served with quroot, a rock-hard sour cheese made from buttermilk which is re-hydrated into a sauce and nan, baked in the tandoor. The heat in the tandoor is fearsome. When the weather is cold children sit with their feet dangling inside to warm them – I was horrified to find my three-year-old doing it.

Kabuli rice: rice cooked with lamb and topped with raisins, almonds and strips of carrot, vegetable dishes and firni a pudding made with milk and corn flour and heavily sweetened.

Shurwa is a meat-based soup (chicken or goat) into which we broke our bread – like I used to do with tomato soup when I was a kid – and once it was all nicely mushed, another piece of bread is used as a spoon.

Afghans love entertaining and at a dinner party, a minimum of seven dishes is served, including kabuli (sometimes seen as qabuli) rice cooked with lamb and topped with raisins, almonds and strips of carrot, vegetable dishes and firni a pudding made with milk and corn flour and heavily sweetened. I so admired how the women (often, it has to be said, helped by the men), working in the most primitive conditions, on a mud-constructed stove, smoke billowing around the kitchen produced these dishes, all cooked to perfection, all hot at the same time.

One of my favourite dishes – perhaps because it is easily reproduced at home – is banjan-sia borani.

In the northern city of Mazar-i-Sharif people came from all over Afghanistan, bringing their own regional and tribal specialities. Little leek-filled dumplings are delicious as is mantu, a dish of steamed dumplings filled with minced beef and onions, topped with a yogurt sauce. One of my favourite dishes – perhaps because it is easily reproduced at home – is banjan-sia borani. This is egg-plant (aubergine) slices fried and served with cooked tomatoes, topped with a sour cream and yoghurt garlicky sauce and dried mint.

I still remember the tantalizing aroma of those lamb kebabs being cooked on street grills.

And kebabs! I still remember the tantalizing aroma of those lamb kebabs being cooked on street grills. Afghan sheep have what’s known as dumba – a fat tail – and pieces of this fat are interspersed with chunks of lamb on the skewers to add flavour. The kebabs were served inside round nan breads, which soaked up the delicious juices. I found sheep testicle kebabs particularly tasty, possibly because I’d eaten them before I knew what the succulent softness was.

This is a tiny taster of the varied foods on offer in Afghanistan. And yes, the most memorable meal I had was in the home of a very poor family. He had leprosy and we’d gone to give him his supply of medicines. The rules of hospitality meant he had to feed us, even though he had next to nothing. He brought us spring onions, salt and thin nan. We wrapped a spring onion in the bread, dipped it in salt and it was as good as eating at a banquet.

Biography and links:

Mary Smith is a writer, freelance journalist and poet based in Dumfries & Galloway in south west Scotland.

She worked in Pakistan and Afghanistan for ten years, where she established a mother and child care programme providing skills and knowledge to women health volunteers. She has written a memoir, Drunk Chickens and Burnt Macaroni: Real Stories of Afghan Women, about her work in Afghanistan and the country also provides the setting for her novel No More Mulberries.

Mary’s poems have been widely published in poetry magazines and anthologies and her first full length poetry collection, Thousands Pass Here Every Day, was published by Indigo Dreams.

She has worked in collaboration with photographer Allan Devlin on two local history books: Dumfries Through Time and Castle Douglas Through Time. Secret Dumfries comes out in June 2018. Her next project is to turn her blog; My Dad’s a Goldfish, into a memoir about caring for her dad through his dementia.

Donkey Boy & Other Stories is her latest publication.

Links:
Blogs: My Dad’s a Goldfish: https://marysmith57.wordpress.com
MarySmith’sPlace:  https://marysmithsplace.wordpress.com
Website: www.marysmith.co.uk
Twitter: https://twitter.com/marysmithwriter
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000934032543

Mary’s latest book is a collection of short stories: Donkey Boy & Other Stories. Shot through with flashes of humour the stories here will entertain, amuse, and make you think. Mary Smith’s debut collection of short stories is a real treat, introducing the reader to a diverse range of characters in a wide range of locations. A donkey boy in Pakistan dreams of buying luxuries for his mother; a mouth artist in rural Scotland longs to leave the circus; a visually impaired man has a problem with his socks; and a woman tries to come to terms with a frightening gift – or curse.