In a fantastic session led by Pauline Omoboye, we explored the world of children’s stories, enjoying and reflecting on a range of texts, music, objects, and creative prompts. The session sparked conversations on what might capture a child’s curiosity, what themes we’d like to use to write a children’s story, our memories of learning to read, reading by ourselves or to others and remembering our own favourite stories.
Here’s a selection of writing from the group, inspired by this wonderful session.
Joyce Lindley
Story Time Recalled
Clearing the books on my old cluttered shelf
I came across something - a most precious find
A bright picture book, lost years, and myself,
Of children, of love, of youth and good health.
Many years back, the two boys, Kai and Wayne
My nephews, at bed-time, would chant this refrain,
"Come on Auntie Joyce it's our story time"
Then they would argue "It's my turn!", "No, mine!"
The argument settled and comfy in bed
The favourite book was found and then read
"Wings on Wednesday" - they loved most of all
I opened the pages and now I recall
I loved it as well - the storybook bright
Hetty's adventures - travels - wings - flight.
High above forests, the creatures she found
So charming, adventurous, then - down to ground.
Last chapter now finished I looked at the boys,
All quiet now, the room only filled with the noise
Of calm childrens breathing, they'd fallen asleep
Their wings quietly folded, in dreamland so deep.
Note from Joyce: Recalling Sydney, 1970
Margaret Kendall
Whoosh!
A pebble on the pavement caught Frankie’s eye as he skipped along in front of me. When I caught up with him, he was polishing it on his school uniform polo shirt, “I’ll take it with me tomorrow”. I admired it, then said, “Put it in your pocket to keep it safe”. “Did you go to after school club, Grantie?” he asked, still polishing. Grantie was the name he knew I liked, much less of a mouthful than Great Auntie. “No, schools were different then.” “I wish I could see.” he replied.
Whoosh! We were standing together in the middle of my old primary school yard. The gravel underfoot, the railings round the oblong yard, the shouts of boys playing marbles in huddled groups, and the song, “the wind, the wind, the wind blows high…”, being sung by girls holding hands dancing round in a circle: all so familiar to me, but he stared round in amazement. “What’s that little building in the corner? and what are those boys doing outside it?” he asked. “It’s the girls’ toilets, we girls hid inside so that the boys couldn’t catch us when we were playing “tig”. The boys’ toilets are on the other corner. There weren’t any toilets inside, we had to wait till playtime to go.” “Ugh, I wouldn’t like that” he cried.
A teacher came out, ringing a large hand bell. The children rushed to join the lines for their classes, boys on one side, girls on the other. “Silence” shouted the teacher, as a few boys chattered in the line. We realised we were invisible to them all, as he walked up and down, making sure that the children settled down. Other teachers appeared to lead each class in turn into the building. We followed behind the youngest children. “We were called the baby class” I told Frankie, not “reception.” He wrinkled his nose. Once inside, he was surprised to see the rows of desks, with boys sitting on one side, girls on the other. “Fingers on lips” shouted the teacher, until all the children were absolutely quiet. Then the teacher pointed to the picture alphabet displayed on the walls and the children recited together “A is for Apple, B is for Ball, C is for Cat…”
“Boring!” said Frankie “I wish we could go now”. He must have had his hand on the pebble in his pocket, because with another Whoosh! we were back on the street near his home. “It wasn’t much fun then,” he said “ the children looked frightened and that classroom had no toys ”. “Yes, not like yours” I said, glad we hadn’t gone into the older children’s classrooms. I remember children getting the strap or the cane, writing out lines, being sent to the headmaster, for what seem like trivial things now. “I like my school.” said Frankie. I held his hand as we carried on home.
Lindy Newns
Tardigrade ( a roundabout poem )
You look home-made, dear Tardigrade
but never been afraid;
a water bear
with scanty hair
oh gentle Tardigrade.
You like the heat, you like the shade
you’re fine with sunshine’s glare;
you needn’t eat
you handle heat
not rare, you’re everywhere.
You’re over here you’re over there
on every single street
you’ll stop, take stock
on molten rock
you dear invertebrate.
Oh Tardigrade we think you’re great
to meet you we have prayed -
here or there
or anywhere
beloved Tardigrade.
Note from Lindy: The Roundabout is a four stanza poem, with each stanza consisting of 5 lines. The poem is written in iambic and the lines have 4 feet, 3 feet, 2 feet, 2 feet and 3 feet respectively. The rhyme scheme is abccb/bcddc/cdaad/dabba. Roundabouts can be on any subject. Several of the writers on our forum have written Roundabouts and have had a blast. We would love for other poets to give it a try!
Jean Byrne
Granny
Mum told me that granny would not be able to stay with us anymore. She had been very poorly and in a lot of pain with cancer. She wasn’t in pain any more now because she had died. This reminded me of the time when I was 5 and my goldfish who I called Donkey had died. I asked mum then when he would be back and not died. Mum said Donkey would never be able to come back because when something dies it doesn’t come back to life again. This made me sad but mum said I should try to remember the happy times I had with Donkey which would always be stored up in my mind.
I am very sad not to have granny to cuddle and play with any more. She always gave the best hugs and smelt like a coconut. She said this was the skin cream she used. I have been thinking about all the happy times I had with granny. The special song she used to sing to me when she babysat at night. It was the “go to sleep my baby” song and she always put my name in it while she stroked my hair before I went to sleep. Granny loved being in the garden. I helped her with the gardening and we collected seeds together. She liked to save Forget-me-knot seeds and sprinkle them on bare patches of land that she passed in the street. I will remember granny whenever I see Forget-me-knots.
Note from Jean: This is an attempt to write a story from the perspective of a child aged about 8 who loses a grandparent. I don’t know any 8-year-olds now but remember my son’s reaction when he was about 6 and his goldfish called Donkey died.
Susan Ash
I wasn’t able to attend this session, but the topic brought back many memories of books from my childhood and from bringing up my own children.
It was around the year 2000 when I first had access to the Internet at home, through a dial up connection. Until then the local library and bookshops had always been the places to go for information and fiction, so reading newspapers and books were our main resources.
As a young child I loved Fairy stories. Books came with beautiful hand drawn illustrations, and although I knew that, as a human, I couldn’t see fairies I liked to believe that they were out there, doing good things for people – especially children who were polite and well behaved! I read many Enid Blyton books and am often reminded of some of her stories by my surroundings. At one time, from reading encyclopedias I could have told you the names of all the gods and goddesses from Greek Mythology, and could identify which trees leaves came from by their shape. A particular book that remains in my memory is Heidi – ‘Heidi is a classic book about a 5-year-old girl who lives with her grandfather in the Swiss Alps and later goes to Frankfurt as a companion to a disabled girl. It was written by Johanna Spyri between 1880 and 1881 and is one of the best-selling and most influential works of Swiss literature.’ (Wikipedia). The illustrations in my book showed her sleeping on a mattress of straw with a skylight window through which she could see the stars and the moon. I thought this looked a wonderful place to live.
Leaping forward to adulthood and being a mum, one of my most treasured memories is ‘a book at bedtime’ every evening with my 3 children. We would sit huddled together while I read the books they had chosen, using different voices for the characters – I think I was quite good at that when only they were listening. For many years I kept a lot of books from my childhood and those that were my children’s favourites, hoping to read them to my grandchildren. But by the time they came along my books were not as interesting as Peppa Pig or Pokemon, so when I downsized last year I sadly parted with most of them.
Lindy Newns
Mum was a big reader. She used to tell the story of trying to read while I breastfed, but as soon as she tried to turn the page, the rustle of paper would attract my attention; I’d come off the nipple and turn my head to try and find out what it was. A page full of words. How wonderful!
She probably taught me to read in the hope it would occupy me and give her some time to herself. I was a demanding child.
Walks to the shops took forever as I toddled along, stopping to spell out the street signs. H A M B L E T O N R OA D. M E R W O O D A V E N U E. W I L M S L O W R O A D . Just three signs on the way to the shops but until I’d learned to read fluently (or perhaps I just remembered the street names) it could take forever.
Oh, but mum was bored reading to me. Every week, back to the library. Every week, Little Bom the Drummer Boy by Enid Blyton. I was obsessed!
It wasn’t a big library, but big enough to hold promise. I’m not sure if it was my own idea or I got it from Francie Nolan in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, (which I shouldn’t have read when still a junior reader, given its subject matter, but it was in our lounge on the shelves which mum had made from bricks and lengths of plank and nobody stopped me. Anyhow, I decided to read all the books in the children’s section starting at A and working through to Z. I think I got as far as G before I gave up, but that meant I read Joan Aiken and Ray Bradbury and Alan Garner, and and oh, hundreds of Enid Blyton and Leon Garfield, and… and…
Oh, the summer days spent lying on my tummy on the grass at granny’s cottage working my way through a pile of books! I think heaven will probably be like that. Sunshine, the smell of lavender, a big bottle of Dandelion and Burdock, piles and piles of books and all the time in the world to read them!
Pauline Omoboye
Our Bogey, My Favourite Toy.
We, the Freemans, had a fantastic bogey (also known as a Go Kart.)
We were the envy of most of our friends. The bogey belonged to my brothers. I had been warned by our Cliff, (second to the eldest) that I could look, but not touch.
Cliff was blooming cheeky, as he had conveniently forgotten that the wheels on the front of the homemade bogey had “my old, I never wanted to part with it’” Silver Cross dolls’ pram wheels. I remember getting the pram as a hand-me-down from one of our kind neighbours whose daughters grew out of it. It arrived on my ninth birthday.
“Should last for ages that pram”, Mum said. I stood, hands akimbo, admiring the Navy-blue hood with the pearly white intricate braiding and sparkling chrome spokes and clasps. It was my first ever pram and I guess it would have lasted ages as mum had predicted, if my brothers hadn’t insisted on giving each other rides in it. They even used it to collect wood for the ‘bommy’ on bonfire nights.
So now bits of my pram had become a bogey, and I was banned from going near it. Unless, of course, to keep it clean. Stan, my ten-year-old twin, knew how upset I was about the whole transformation from pram to bogey. It had been an ordeal so every now and again we gently and quietly snuck the bogey out when Cliff went to do his newspaper round. Stan would drag the bogey behind him then put it in position, while I sat proudly poised on the dodgy car seat which we acquired from my dad’s old motor.
Soon we would head towards Dudley Brew. Dudley Brew sounded like a Birmingham cup of tea. It was a road near our primary school that was so steep when standing at the top, you could not “for the life of you” see the bottom. This was a place where most expert bogey riders went, and we were no exception.
First it was Stan’s turn. I was standing, open mouthed, gazing in amazement as Stan would glide with his expertise down the infamous hill, tugging the rope used for steering. It was connected to the axle and ‘my wheels.’ I knew every nut and bolt on that bogey as I had the job of polishing it, and I could see it gleaming as it careered down the hill. I watched as Stan glided smoothly and imagined that Stan with his skills could have driven in a real Grand Prix.
Every now and then, a resounding yelp would escape my lips, and my heart felt as though it was going to jump out of my chest. People passing by would dive in every direction. Often, they would stand outside shops, their bodies firmly pressed against the shopfronts, narrowly escaping a collision. I knew I should not have been surprised when Stan missed them, but he caught me out every time. I flushed with the excitement, as he swerved in and out. Stan had panache and precision and would glance over his shoulders as people rushed by, a whoosh of air travelling behind him. I would grin from ear to ear with sheer admiration giving the thumbs up of approval. Out of all my brothers, I was delighted Stan was MY twin.
I ran part way down the hill and could see him running and slightly out of breath on his way back up, like Dick Whittington with rope draped over his right shoulder. Bringing the bogey back was the only downside of driving it, but this was soon forgotten by both of us on the descent. “Hurry up” I shouted at the top of my voice, hardly able to contain my excitement. Stan smiled teasingly walking slowly, but then started playfully running towards me. Soon he was settling me into the brightly coloured seat as I conveniently dismissed my fears of being caught by my big brother Cliff. Soon it was my turn. I braved it, clung on to the rope and adjusted myself into position. Stan placed both hands on my shoulders and I glanced down the hill for any unsuspecting man, woman, or child. My current history of major collisions had reached double figures so everything movable had better get out of my way. I chuckled at last, I was ready. Ready to cruise at a rate of knots. “Are you ready sis?” bellowed Stan. “I am ready “I screeched. “Prepare for take-off.” Stan gave me an almighty shove and I was soon gliding, avoiding whimpering dogs and pigeons. And at that moment, I did not have a care in the world. This was how I liked to be. Nothing could interfere with this moment. Nothing and no one.
I knew he was proud of me, as his best friends Richard and Kelton had sisters and neither of them could ride a bogey. I arrived at the bottom safely. It took hardly any time at all, and Stan was soon beside me. Stan and I giggled all the way home. We then shook hands as we parked the bogey in the backyard where it belonged.
Later, when I saw Cliff, I looked at him sheepishly, knowing that Stan and I had got one over on him. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, I slept soundly that night and dreamt of bogey rides and future sporting adventures.
© Pauline Omoboye
The Stories of Our Lives 