peace

Crazy Maisie

I’m too old to do anything much these days. My joints are too full of arthritis to walk far and my fingers are too gnarled and painful to knit but the fires inside haven’t died. LOL. These days I’m relegated to being a keyboard warrior – at least when the pain in my fingers allows. I don’t hold back. They used to call me ‘Crazy Maisie’. I’m still crazy after all these years!

My Tom didn’t really understand. He put up with me and my crazy ways. He knew I had to do it. Sometimes you have no choice. If something is wrong then you have to do something about it. There is no question. It had to be done.

Tom used to say to me: ‘Maisie Trafford, what do you think you’re doing? Nobody will take the slightest notice of you and those bloody hippies.’ He thought we were all nuts. Poor sod thought that I was abandoning him. Thought I was having some midlife crisis.

They did listen though didn’t they? They had no choice!

Poor old Tom – makes me smile to think of him. He was so confused – one minute furious and the next so sorry for himself. He didn’t understand. He’d been used to having everything done for him and suddenly he had to fend for himself. He soon found out what I’d been contributing though, didn’t he? The kids had left so at least he didn’t have them to look after. I can still picture him in my head, coming back from work to a dark, cold house, laying the fire, cooking a meal and then all the housework, washing and ironing. All he’d done over the years was mow the bloody lawn and then down to the pub for a quick pint before lunch. He soon found out though, didn’t he?

Of course, the kids took pity on him, had him round for meals. John helped him with the DIY and Emily did some tidying and I bet she did his washing and ironing too, bless her. I think they understood that I had to do it. At least they said the right things.

Sometimes I was gone for months. When I came back I was never quite sure of the reception. Tom didn’t know whether to be angry, sarcastic, totally noncommittal or welcome me back with open arms. I’d watch him vacillating with amusement. Silly sod. I think he was secretly proud of me though it would have killed him to admit it. He always came round eventually, even if it did take a few days.

Over the four years I went to the camp he became better. Quite a lot better. I noticed the improvement. When I came back the place looked quite tidy and it didn’t smell anywhere near as bad. The washing up was done. There was food in the fridge and his clothes were put away. He’d learnt to cook, at least a few simple recipes. I guess he’d got fed up with fish and chips and take-aways. He learnt. Over those four years he became quite self-proficient. I noticed I got a less frosty reception.

Towards the end he became openly pleased to see me. Even asked about what we’d been up to and seemed to show an interest. Who’d been arrested, what tricks we’d been trying, who’d been beaten up, who’d done what. He’d been following the protests on the telly and reading about it.

Still thought we were all daft, like;  still told me that it was all pointless. But I could see a grudging respect. He could see the strength growing in me. I could see the way he looked at me. He’d begun to think that we might just get those missiles moved.

We did, didn’t we?

What times we had! If I was a few decades younger I’d be doing it all again! Gaza, Ukraine, Putin and Trump. Global warming. Black Lives Matter.  Women’s Rights. You couldn’t stop me. Even if Tom was still here he’d not stand in my way. Back in 82 I’d found my mojo. I came alive.

I can’t do the marches or climb over the barbed wire but I can still pound the keyboards! No force on earth will stop me! There’s so much to protest about. Those missiles, those four years, the camaraderie, the idealism, opened up something inside me. The indignation flooded through. I couldn’t have held it back if I tried. It’s still there after forty years. I don’t think it’ll ever die down now. These days I pour it all on to the web. There’s a little group of us old grey warriors. We may be grey on the outside but we’re full of rainbows in our heads. We won’t give up!

I don’t believe a word of what the establishment say. They lie. A bunch of warmongering self-servers who don’t understand about life at all, about comradeship, sharing and how beautiful it all could be if they weren’t so damn greedy. I don’t believe a word.

The future has to be fought for. We can’t let them get away with it.

What memories I have to sustain me. I have my comradeship. We’re still together.