Hello again, I’m Lisa Scully-O’Grady, a writer with an interest in the connection between creativity and healing. This week, we continue with our theme of change.

Family expansion is another facet of change that most people go through at some point, whether it be due to our own or a family member’s marriage, the addition of a new child to the family however that comes about, and for others it’s chosen family. There are so many ways  our family dynamics can be created and changed over our lifetimes. It’s always a good idea to remain open to possibilities for family, community and connection.

Often, change is welcome. Sometimes, it’s not. But however it arises we have to come to terms with it and accept it. As the pieces I’ve chosen for this week show, we can learn from everyone.

I’m excited to include a beautiful painting by Jo Renton, who has also submitted a prose piece for my page, reminding us we can build family and community wherever we are, and that it will look however we choose it to.

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This first prose piece by Jo Renton focuses on the changes in the in-law relationship dynamic and how it can change for the better over time as we grow and learn to understand one another’s differing perspectives and various love languages, be that through sharing meals made with care or community gatherings.

Die Oma

Oma was one of those women who were middle-aged by the time she was 40 and then hardly changed at all during the ensuing 30 years. Her hair, which she always wore in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, seldom had a chance to show its rich brown tones, which she never lost, even in extreme old age. The contours of her ample frame never really changed either, and neither did her slim legs and feet encased, as I remember, in dark pink velveteen slippers.

Except when she went to church, which she did without fail every Sunday and feast day, or when she went ‘maien’, or visiting as we would call it, she would invariably be wearing a flowery overall, which protected her clothes if they were her good ones, and concealed the situation if she were just wearing one of her workaday dresses.

She had her heart set on her only son getting together with a doctor’s or a solicitor’s daughter from the neighbouring town where he had been sent to the gymnasium, the German equivalent of our grammar schools but, instead, she ended up with me as her daughter-in-law! Definitely not what she’d had in mind.

For one thing, communication was very difficult at first, as I hardly spoke German at that time, and for another, my father was definitely not a doctor or a solicitor. In fact, I had no father at all, legal or otherwise. Also, ‘Saarlaendisch’ ways were very different to what I’d been used to. But that was all to come later – just a blip actually – before I was prepared to recognise how skilled, resourceful and hard-working Oma really was and I was prepared to allow her to see the less guarded side of my nature.

When the babies arrived, apart from differences of opinion about bringing them up, starting with how many stifling and restricting layers of clothing, shawls and blankets a baby should be subjected to, through to emulating the typical continental toddlers which, according to Oma, were all reliably potty-trained by the time they were a year old. Then, progressing through early childhood with vast quantities of chocolate bunnies and eggs at Easter time, and a similar quantity of chocolate to celebrate St Nikolaus’s arrival in December. The chocolate bounty my four children received on these occasions would have made them ill for weeks, had I allowed them to follow their own inclinations, rather than lining up all the silver-foil wrapped figures on the top of the wardrobe where they were almost impossible to reach.

By the time I met Oma and Opa their farming days were largely behind them, as were Opa’s daily visits to the coal-rich seams, far underground. Though they still kept their chickens which, in happier times, had the run of the whole grassy area at the back of the house. But the visiting grandchildren grew older and wanted to play in the garden too and it was deemed less than desirable to let them run around in an area strewn with chicken manure. And so the dozen or so black hens had their space reduced by half. I can see them now, wistfully looking through the wire which separated the two halves of the garden, like aristocrats who had fallen on hard times, pining for their lost estates.

This didn’t seem to deter them from laying their lovely brown eggs though, which my children were sent to look for whenever they were around. I never had to buy eggs or pork in the supermarket. One week, I even took home the plucked corpse of a tough old layer, with instructions to boil it for at least three hours. But it looked like a normal chicken to my untrained eye so, instead, I put it in the oven to roast. The result was not palatable, to say the least. Let’s just say, the incident was a part of a steep learning curve.

Every week, we would make our Sunday afternoon trip, pilgrimage almost, to the pretty part of northern Saarland some 30 kilometres away from the main town of Saarbrucken, where we used to live. And we’d return some hours later with stomachs and car so full we all felt, truth be told, a little bit ill.

We had learned to ensure that we arrived after lunch and not before, except on special occasions, but the mid-afternoon coffee and cake, followed by an evening meal of Wiener sausages and white crispy rolls a couple of hours later, was definitely more than enough, even for healthy young stomachs, such as ours were in those days.

The Germans have a saying ‘Der Qual der Wahl’ which rhymes rather nicely and means literally, ‘The torture of choice’ and confronted with an array of Oma’s cakes this indeed proved to be the case. Which one to choose? I usually ended up eating two of the large slices proffered so generously. There was plum cake made with a sort of pizza dough to be eaten sprinkled with sugar and covered in whipped cream, cheesecake, souffle-light and fluffy, with a delicious tang of lemon, Black-Forest gateau so tall and wobbly it was impossible to transfer the slices still in an upright position to our waiting plates. These are just three examples that I can remember easily, probably because they were my favourites, but there were lots more.

I’m sure you must be wondering about the overladen car of our Sunday evening homeward journeys. Besides eggs, the occasional tough chicken and available cuts of pork, there would be bottled fruit and vegetables, fresh from the garden. According to what was in season, there would be: black morello cherries, Sauer-kirschen, strawberries, apples, cooking and eating, beans, peas and carrots – a veritable cornucopia, with a generous bunch of roses, asters, marigolds, or gladioli, perched on top of everything. There was definitely no danger of our family suffering from hunger and fading away!

In fact, this account is mainly set in the seventies, a mere two decades after the dreadful post-war period in Germany, when many people, especially in the towns, were constantly on the brink of starvation.

Those living in the country fared better. They merely had to become more resourceful and adopt the habit of regarding certain state regulations and restrictions with slightly more creativity than was called for. Oma used to tell tales of the secret and illegal slaughtering of the pigs and the miscounting of chickens, rabbits and acreage. But they survived through it all and, as far as anyone knows, were never brought to account.

It’s only now, looking back through the mists of time,  I can appreciate how much it meant to them to provide their son and his family with all the things they had so sorely missed during the difficult years of the end of the war and its aftermath.

© Jo Renton, 2024

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Sometimes, becoming a parent can be less than ideal. All feelings are valid and need to be expressed and explored, so they don’t become trapped in the body. Writing poetry can be a great outlet for uncomfortable feelings, if we’re not yet ready for therapy. This next piece, though poignant, is refreshingly honest and I’m sure others will relate. We’re never as alone as we think we are.

Free From My Senses

you – the result of stepping out of bounds
colours and features others find adorable
your sounds – eardrums would curse you for being so loud
silence just under the list of unaffordables
your limbs – can’t seem to fall in line as they should
no smoothness in my skin after all it’s been through
your smell – filthy by design the product of a womb
urine and feces do not care about scars
I hate you – I wish I never had to have you,
but you won’t get to thank grandpa for making it this far.

© Petros Koustenis, 2024

Connect with Petros on Instagram: @petros.kous and YouTube: youtube.com/@thegrumpypoet

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As humans, we don’t tend to embrace change immediately. This poem speaks to us about how change, both internal and external, is inevitable and may not always be welcomed but must be accepted nonetheless.

Change

Change happens, whether we like it or not.
in the seasons in our souls,
Change is inevitable; it is questionable.
In our lives, in our fears, what may it bring next?
Change all change, time to move on, time to improve,
This is change—the exchange of things never remaining the same.
So it is time for another change, whether you like it or not!

© Tavinder New, 2024

Connect with Tavinder on Instagram: @NewTavinder and via their website: wordpress.com/post/tavindernew.wordpress.com

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Our final poem reflects upon the transition from a difficult time to something new. We find ourselves looking back with nostalgia and forward with hope once again and reminding us that life will always be full of ups and downs.

Change

That time when you feel like you’re in the inbetween land
Messy middle
Waiting for something
Creating…
Reflecting…
Thinking about ‘how’ you got here
It’s a pivotal time
A blessed beginning
An unassuming ending
We may experience grief
Yes, grief!
Grief for what was…
Grief for what is…
And fear mix with grief for what may be
It’s OK though
“Change is good right”?
We’re not always feeling positive
We can’t always see the lessons
But that’s OK
Make change exciting
Make it thrilling
Something to be celebrated
We are in ‘transition’
We are ‘transforming’ and our situations are too
When we’ve completed that cycle we often appreciate the journey
The metamorphosis has completed
The beautiful, unique, exquisite butterfly has been birthed
Onto a new phase of our life…
Until it’s time to start the process all again!

© Hyacinth J Myers, 2024  

Connect with Hyacinth on Instagram: @hyacinth.j.myers and via their website: hyacinthmyers.com

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Connect with Lisa Scully-O’Grady on X and Instagram: @letters_home_again

If you’d like to see your writing appear in the Write On! Showcase, please submit your short stories, poetry or novel extracts to: pentoprint.org/get-involved/submit-to-write-on/

Hear extracts from Showcase in our podcast. Write On! Audio. Find us on all major podcast platforms, including Apple and Google Podcasts and Spotify. Type Pen to Print into your browser and look for our logo or find us on Spotify for Pocasters.

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