I'm amazed that in the last seven years and more, this blog has now passed the 400 mark. Since stepping out with some hesitation on May Day 2011, I dread to think how far those 'Four Wheels' have travelled. And, as edition no. 401 hits the air-waves, I'm looking forward to several more miles being covered tomorrow ... although it won't be me behind the wheel this time. It's the occasion of our annual Autumn Ringing Outing, and I'm being picked up at 8.25 for a day in Bedfordshire and Buckinghamshire.
With this excursion in mind, I woke up one night this week to find myself recalling my first such outing. About six months after I'd learned to ring, the old chap who had taught me was asked if he would be prepared to visit the church in nearby Palgrave, where there were a number of youngsters who would like to learn to ring their bells. After expressing his willingness to undertake the challenge, Bertie asked me if I'd like to go along to help. I suspect he thought the additional practice would be good for me and, whether by design or not, it certainly worked out that way.
Once all of the learners could safely handle a bell, there was no need for Bertie to attend every week and, within a year or so, I was there every Friday evening running the practices and teaching them to ring simple methods. By the summer of 1972 we were looking for further adventures. I suggested an outing with a difference. With transport limited, we opted to travel by train to Norwich, spend the morning exploring and then do a little ringing in the afternoon. The older beginners - the village's rector and his churchwarden, both of whom were probably in their sixties - didn't find this appealing, and declined the invitation.
So the party set forth one sunny Saturday morning. I was accompanied by Mark, a work colleague who often helped with the practices, and possibly his sister Debbie, who was also a ringer, and we took Mary, the churchwarden's daughter, Colin and Roger, two brothers of whom Colin subsequently became a much more accomplished ringer than I ever did, and another boy named Stan. Of these I was the eldest, in my early 20s and, with the exception of Mark, all the rest were at secondary school. None of us had any recognised accreditation; there were no health and safety considerations in those days.
The morning was spent visiting three churches where there were bells that were no longer rung. The first was St Stephen's in the city centre, then very much on the decline and with three bells that were never rung, and then we moved on to St John de Sepulchre, which at the time had eight fine bells that weren't rung because the tower was unsafe. We were met by a robed priest who exhorted us not to attempt to do so. These bells were later sold and split up. Six of them were installed at Erpingham in the north of Norfolk, and the other two enabled the six at East Harling to be made up to the octave.
I was present at the dedication of that new ring, which was preceded by a quarter peal that has lingered in my memory. For some reason the start had been delayed and with the congregation all assembled the vicar announced that 'we will wait for the ringers to finish'. Aware of this, we were aware of a slight increase in the speed of the ringing and all hoped they wouldn't make a mistake. Suddenly, on three consecutive strokes, the conductor called, "Bob! That's all! Stand!" signifying the end of the composition, instructing the end of ringing and finally the setting of the bells ... and the dedication could proceed.
Our third exploration was at St Clements where there were three bells in a frame that was in such a dangerous condition that we wouldn't have been allowed up there today. A picture exists of the four youngsters having just emerged into the sunlight on the top of the tower after climbing through the bells and all around that dodgy frame!
After our packed lunches had been eaten, we were met by a celebrated local ringer, the Revd. Gilbert Thurlow, shortly before his elevation to become dean of Gloucester Cathedral. He was very familiar with the churches of Norwich, and told us much about the places we'd been to and also those where we were going to. Much of what he told us probably went over our heads, but we felt it a great privilege to have him ring with us at St George's, Colegate and St Michael Coslany.
Tomorrow our greatest challenge will be the fine ten at SS Peter & Paul, Olney, where the bells are well over twice the weight of those at our home tower! With luck, we will be welcomed by a local ringer who will be able to help where needed, but I'm sure neither this privilege nor any dangers we face will match those experiences of 46 years ago!
Friday, 19 October 2018
Friday, 12 October 2018
The Length of a Generation
Today's post begins with a history lesson. Ask people what they know about the history of Texas and many - in this country at any rate - will respond with blank faces. Some who were brought up on stories of cowboys and the Wild West might mention Davy Crockett and the Alamo, but few would go beyond that. One of my schoolboy fascinations was the geo-political history of the USA; as a result I remembered that Texas was briefly an independent republic before being annexed by the United States in 1845.
My attention was drawn this week to an item broadcast on CBS Evening News of 6th March 2018, which informed me that the President who signed the Decree of Annexation was John Tyler. Tyler became the first Vice-President to succeed to that role when his predecessor, William Henry Harrison, died in April 1841 after only a month in office. The focus of the news item this March was the discovery that - amazingly for a man born in 1790 - two of his grandsons are still alive! The younger of the two, Harrison Ruffin Tyler, was interviewed with his son at the family home in Charles City, Virginia, which President Tyler had renovated for his second wife, Julia.
Julia was only 22, and some thirty years younger than her husband, when they married after the death of his first wife, Letitia, in 1842. After raising a family of eight children with Letitia, the President went on to have a second family of seven with Julia. Of these, Lyon Gardiner Tyler, the third son and fifth child was born in 1853. Lyon's life followed the pattern of his father, to the extent that he re-married following the death of his first wife. Lyon's second wife was 35 years his junior, and bore him three sons, the youngest of whom died in infancy. Harrison, the second son, was born in 1928 when his father was 75 years old.
As a result of learning about the Tyler family this week, my thoughts have been focused on my own. As a small boy, a pattern of births was revealed to me that was probably one of the earliest seedlings of my interest in genealogy. Three girls were born in successive years following my birth, as cousins who had married before my arrival started their respective families. I was the last of one generation; these three, born of three different sets of parents, were the start of the next one.
I have often commented with some amusement on the Biblical precedent followed by my father, who was John, born of Zachariah and Elizabeth (see Luke ch. 1). However, unlike the Baptist, dad wasn't executed in his mid-thirties, but lived two days beyond his eightieth birthday, and gave me the best upbringing his meagre status would allow. What I hadn't realised until after his death, was the fact that he missed only one unit of being that most fortunate of creatures, 'a seventh son of a seventh son'.
I knew from the list in the family Bible that this Zachariah and Elizabeth had a family of twelve, of whom three children died within their first year. I knew all the rest of them, five of whom were my uncles, but had never done the sum of adding in the son who died, which makes dad the seventh son. I never knew anything of my grandfather's family until starting my researches, and I have often wondered just how much dad knew of them ... like so many families, it just wasn't a topic of conversation. I now know that grandfather was one of ten children and just as my father was the youngest son, so was his father; with three elder sisters and one younger one, he was the sixth son of the family.
I have called this article the length of a generation; in the case of the Tyler family from the birth of John to the birth of his youngest surviving grandson was 138 years. We can't compete with that! From my grandfather's birth to my own was a mere 81 years, and looking back another generation, my father's birth was only 79 years after his grandfather. And it's a progressive trend, for the earliest I can go back is only one more generation and from the end of the eighteenth century I can say that my grandfather was born only 69 years after his grandfather!
I mentioned the succession of annual births that marked the transition from my generation to the next; My favourite personal example of this phenomenon is the fact that, after migrating to Lancashire in search of work, my eldest great-aunt had married, raised her family of six children and died - albeit at the early age of only 45 - some four years before the turn of the twentieth century!
My attention was drawn this week to an item broadcast on CBS Evening News of 6th March 2018, which informed me that the President who signed the Decree of Annexation was John Tyler. Tyler became the first Vice-President to succeed to that role when his predecessor, William Henry Harrison, died in April 1841 after only a month in office. The focus of the news item this March was the discovery that - amazingly for a man born in 1790 - two of his grandsons are still alive! The younger of the two, Harrison Ruffin Tyler, was interviewed with his son at the family home in Charles City, Virginia, which President Tyler had renovated for his second wife, Julia.
Julia was only 22, and some thirty years younger than her husband, when they married after the death of his first wife, Letitia, in 1842. After raising a family of eight children with Letitia, the President went on to have a second family of seven with Julia. Of these, Lyon Gardiner Tyler, the third son and fifth child was born in 1853. Lyon's life followed the pattern of his father, to the extent that he re-married following the death of his first wife. Lyon's second wife was 35 years his junior, and bore him three sons, the youngest of whom died in infancy. Harrison, the second son, was born in 1928 when his father was 75 years old.
As a result of learning about the Tyler family this week, my thoughts have been focused on my own. As a small boy, a pattern of births was revealed to me that was probably one of the earliest seedlings of my interest in genealogy. Three girls were born in successive years following my birth, as cousins who had married before my arrival started their respective families. I was the last of one generation; these three, born of three different sets of parents, were the start of the next one.
I have often commented with some amusement on the Biblical precedent followed by my father, who was John, born of Zachariah and Elizabeth (see Luke ch. 1). However, unlike the Baptist, dad wasn't executed in his mid-thirties, but lived two days beyond his eightieth birthday, and gave me the best upbringing his meagre status would allow. What I hadn't realised until after his death, was the fact that he missed only one unit of being that most fortunate of creatures, 'a seventh son of a seventh son'.
I knew from the list in the family Bible that this Zachariah and Elizabeth had a family of twelve, of whom three children died within their first year. I knew all the rest of them, five of whom were my uncles, but had never done the sum of adding in the son who died, which makes dad the seventh son. I never knew anything of my grandfather's family until starting my researches, and I have often wondered just how much dad knew of them ... like so many families, it just wasn't a topic of conversation. I now know that grandfather was one of ten children and just as my father was the youngest son, so was his father; with three elder sisters and one younger one, he was the sixth son of the family.
I have called this article the length of a generation; in the case of the Tyler family from the birth of John to the birth of his youngest surviving grandson was 138 years. We can't compete with that! From my grandfather's birth to my own was a mere 81 years, and looking back another generation, my father's birth was only 79 years after his grandfather. And it's a progressive trend, for the earliest I can go back is only one more generation and from the end of the eighteenth century I can say that my grandfather was born only 69 years after his grandfather!
I mentioned the succession of annual births that marked the transition from my generation to the next; My favourite personal example of this phenomenon is the fact that, after migrating to Lancashire in search of work, my eldest great-aunt had married, raised her family of six children and died - albeit at the early age of only 45 - some four years before the turn of the twentieth century!
Friday, 5 October 2018
One Thing Leads to Another!
I may have used this title before but if so I've no compunction about using it again. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has found it to be true, both in an immediate sense, and also when reflecting over past events and realising how they have led to later developments ... those 'if only ...' moments: some good, some bad. This week's events have embraced examples of both short- and long-term categories.
A year ago, I was prompted to go along with a few others as representatives of our church in response to a town-wide appeal to explore the possibility of starting a breakfast/drop-in facility to help the town's homeless or vulnerable citizens. At that stage, my interest was purely from the point of view of information-gathering; nothing would persuade me to do anything in a kitchen or, for that matter, talk to strangers! However, when a clipboard was passed round to collect names of those who would like to explore the idea further, it collected mine and gradually I was drawn in.
At first, I committed myself to 'the Ark' on a once a month basis to 'set the scene', putting tables and chairs out and so on. After that I would stand by the serving hatch, sipping coffee and observing ... and feeling more and more uncomfortable about not taking an active part in what was going on. The name ARK stands for Always Room for Kindness, and I felt uneasy that keeping my distance like this betrayed that aim. Eventually one of the other helpers drew me into a conversation she was having with a 'client' and the ice was broken. Soon my monthly visit became fortnightly and, having no competing commitment, I began attending every week.
In a conversation with that same helper one week, I think it was a comparison between her children growing up and leaving her some free time and my having retired that led to the revelation that she also volunteers at the local hospice, and the suggestion that there might be a need in their warehouse that could provide an application for some of my excess capacity. Once I'd been accepted by the organisation, I determined that - as much for my own enjoyment as anything else - I wanted my commitment to be a versatile one. I am therefore learning what is involved in collecting larger donations from houses, and servicing the retail shops that raise funds, and also computer work, processing books for bulk sale. Inevitably, the odd items that, for one reason or another, can't be sold catch the eye as potentially of interest or use to the volunteers so, rather than see them scrapped, we are able to pay a small amount and claim them as ours.
When I brought home a couple of CDs this week, I realised that my already full cabinet wouldn't accommodate them, and space had to be made by selecting two unwanted ones to offer as donations on my next visit. Today I spotted, sitting on top of a skip in the yard, what looked like a roll-top CD cabinet; further examination revealed that one of the roller doors was split. I thought it could be mended and enquired about obtaining it for my use. It was quickly mended - to my satisfaction, at least - and I set about filling it, only to discover that the width of the sections makes it more suitable for DVDs than CDs. As a result, it is now filled with these and, by virtue of 'moving the space along', I have capacity for some more books on my shelves ... and a few cobwebs have been evicted in the process!
As if all this 'personal development' weren't enough, a few weeks ago, as I emerged from the theatre, I bumped into the chairman of my local Liberal Democrat branch, who asked me if I would take some minutes at that week's meeting. This led to my agreeing to take on the secretary's duties up to the next Annual Meeting. Following on from that, the need to circulate all members with information from time to time, led this week to my exploring the intricacies of MailChimp, which, after two sacrificed evenings on the altar of discovery, I would like to say I've just about mastered ... time alone will tell!
A year ago, I was prompted to go along with a few others as representatives of our church in response to a town-wide appeal to explore the possibility of starting a breakfast/drop-in facility to help the town's homeless or vulnerable citizens. At that stage, my interest was purely from the point of view of information-gathering; nothing would persuade me to do anything in a kitchen or, for that matter, talk to strangers! However, when a clipboard was passed round to collect names of those who would like to explore the idea further, it collected mine and gradually I was drawn in.
At first, I committed myself to 'the Ark' on a once a month basis to 'set the scene', putting tables and chairs out and so on. After that I would stand by the serving hatch, sipping coffee and observing ... and feeling more and more uncomfortable about not taking an active part in what was going on. The name ARK stands for Always Room for Kindness, and I felt uneasy that keeping my distance like this betrayed that aim. Eventually one of the other helpers drew me into a conversation she was having with a 'client' and the ice was broken. Soon my monthly visit became fortnightly and, having no competing commitment, I began attending every week.
In a conversation with that same helper one week, I think it was a comparison between her children growing up and leaving her some free time and my having retired that led to the revelation that she also volunteers at the local hospice, and the suggestion that there might be a need in their warehouse that could provide an application for some of my excess capacity. Once I'd been accepted by the organisation, I determined that - as much for my own enjoyment as anything else - I wanted my commitment to be a versatile one. I am therefore learning what is involved in collecting larger donations from houses, and servicing the retail shops that raise funds, and also computer work, processing books for bulk sale. Inevitably, the odd items that, for one reason or another, can't be sold catch the eye as potentially of interest or use to the volunteers so, rather than see them scrapped, we are able to pay a small amount and claim them as ours.
When I brought home a couple of CDs this week, I realised that my already full cabinet wouldn't accommodate them, and space had to be made by selecting two unwanted ones to offer as donations on my next visit. Today I spotted, sitting on top of a skip in the yard, what looked like a roll-top CD cabinet; further examination revealed that one of the roller doors was split. I thought it could be mended and enquired about obtaining it for my use. It was quickly mended - to my satisfaction, at least - and I set about filling it, only to discover that the width of the sections makes it more suitable for DVDs than CDs. As a result, it is now filled with these and, by virtue of 'moving the space along', I have capacity for some more books on my shelves ... and a few cobwebs have been evicted in the process!
As if all this 'personal development' weren't enough, a few weeks ago, as I emerged from the theatre, I bumped into the chairman of my local Liberal Democrat branch, who asked me if I would take some minutes at that week's meeting. This led to my agreeing to take on the secretary's duties up to the next Annual Meeting. Following on from that, the need to circulate all members with information from time to time, led this week to my exploring the intricacies of MailChimp, which, after two sacrificed evenings on the altar of discovery, I would like to say I've just about mastered ... time alone will tell!
Friday, 28 September 2018
Come Again, Chum?
It's something I've heard many times ... I expect most of my readers have, as well. In fact ... I wonder if they actually teach it in schools. Or perhaps they used to but, since it seems to be so self-evident, maybe they no longer bother. I'm talking (rubbish) about the idea that 'History repeats itself'. I believe there's an American Indian saying, "Only an idiot does the same foolish thing a second time hoping for a different outcome!" It says much the same thing, I think.
What's prompted this philosophical line of thought? I may have mentioned before an e-book that I'm reading called "Cat and Mouse" by Tim Vicary. It's set in the early months of 1914 ... a significant point in our history for many reasons. I continue to marvel at the ingenious way this author has planted his principle male characters into the two main concerns of the day (viz. the Suffragettes and their fight for votes for women, and the Irish home-rule crisis), and then linked them by their marriage to two sisters. I need give away no more of the plot than that to make my point ... it's a good read!
These two 'problems' had divided the people of our great nation. No matter where one looked, it seems, there would be some who supported women getting the vote, and many others who opposed it vigorously. Perhaps less on this island, but certainly on the other, there would have been a similar division of opinion regarding setting up a parliament in Dublin to govern the affairs of what geographically might be 'Lesser Britain' as opposed to 'Great Britain' (although I've never seen the former name in print).
And today, just over a century later, there are once more two great concerns in our land. There are many - a growing number, we are told - who would like to see the end of the present electoral system, with its 'winner-takes-all' principle that worked when there were only Whigs and Tories, but so often results nowadays in a disproportionate outcome when compared to the way people voted, and its replacement by a proportional system such as operates in most other countries, and in the devolved institutions here. The second current divider of our land goes by the name of 'Brexit' and is so often in the news that it needs no further expansion here.
In many ways the situation today reflects that of 1914. One contention concerns the governing of the country while the other is about the means of conducting elections; both have large swathes of the population in favour and against, and both campaigns are vociferous in nature and involve occasional localised violence.
In 1914, with the King's reluctant intervention, the Home Rule Bill was passed but its implementation was shelved owing to the brief international crisis that led to the outbreak of war. There was an ineffective rising in 1916, brutally quashed in the interests of focusing attention on the war, and once that was over, Ireland was torn apart by the War of Independence followed by a brief civil war.
After the suspension of Suffragette activities during the war, accompanied by thousands of women taking on what had been exclusively men's work to aid the war effort, it was seen afterwards - whether correctly or not - as a 'pay-off' when in 1918 women over 30 and younger ones who were property owners were given the vote. The remaining women had to wait another ten years.
In 1914, few ordinary people saw the war coming. A minor headline in June reported an assassination on the other side of the continent, but on August Bank Holiday people were sunning themselves on the beaches as usual. This week, a solitary District Council has passed a motion to set up a local commission to look at what Brexit will mean 'on the ground' ... just one, out of hundreds!
I can't help wondering at these comparisons ... and I'm praying that history doesn't, in this instance, repeat itself!
What's prompted this philosophical line of thought? I may have mentioned before an e-book that I'm reading called "Cat and Mouse" by Tim Vicary. It's set in the early months of 1914 ... a significant point in our history for many reasons. I continue to marvel at the ingenious way this author has planted his principle male characters into the two main concerns of the day (viz. the Suffragettes and their fight for votes for women, and the Irish home-rule crisis), and then linked them by their marriage to two sisters. I need give away no more of the plot than that to make my point ... it's a good read!
These two 'problems' had divided the people of our great nation. No matter where one looked, it seems, there would be some who supported women getting the vote, and many others who opposed it vigorously. Perhaps less on this island, but certainly on the other, there would have been a similar division of opinion regarding setting up a parliament in Dublin to govern the affairs of what geographically might be 'Lesser Britain' as opposed to 'Great Britain' (although I've never seen the former name in print).
And today, just over a century later, there are once more two great concerns in our land. There are many - a growing number, we are told - who would like to see the end of the present electoral system, with its 'winner-takes-all' principle that worked when there were only Whigs and Tories, but so often results nowadays in a disproportionate outcome when compared to the way people voted, and its replacement by a proportional system such as operates in most other countries, and in the devolved institutions here. The second current divider of our land goes by the name of 'Brexit' and is so often in the news that it needs no further expansion here.
In many ways the situation today reflects that of 1914. One contention concerns the governing of the country while the other is about the means of conducting elections; both have large swathes of the population in favour and against, and both campaigns are vociferous in nature and involve occasional localised violence.
In 1914, with the King's reluctant intervention, the Home Rule Bill was passed but its implementation was shelved owing to the brief international crisis that led to the outbreak of war. There was an ineffective rising in 1916, brutally quashed in the interests of focusing attention on the war, and once that was over, Ireland was torn apart by the War of Independence followed by a brief civil war.
After the suspension of Suffragette activities during the war, accompanied by thousands of women taking on what had been exclusively men's work to aid the war effort, it was seen afterwards - whether correctly or not - as a 'pay-off' when in 1918 women over 30 and younger ones who were property owners were given the vote. The remaining women had to wait another ten years.
In 1914, few ordinary people saw the war coming. A minor headline in June reported an assassination on the other side of the continent, but on August Bank Holiday people were sunning themselves on the beaches as usual. This week, a solitary District Council has passed a motion to set up a local commission to look at what Brexit will mean 'on the ground' ... just one, out of hundreds!
I can't help wondering at these comparisons ... and I'm praying that history doesn't, in this instance, repeat itself!
Friday, 21 September 2018
The Rich Variety of Life
It's good that my life includes a variety of both routines and exceptions that, in juxtaposition, can provide both pleasure and adventure. After a very enjoyable weekend, the highlight of which was an unusual celebration, this week has seen an exciting new development.
The routine of the weekend was a 'normal' Sunday, with bell-ringing, helping with the singing and other rota duties at the church service and an afternoon and evening listening to radio and clicking away at the computer. The complementary excitement came on Saturday afternoon, when I joined in an rare event being celebrated by one of my friends from church. This week marks the twentieth anniversary of my friend's putting into effect her decision to come and live in this country. In that time, she has developed - to a remarkable extent, in my opinion - her skills in our (very strange!) language, found a husband and become a very settled mother-of-two and significant contributor to our church family life.
The test match series might well have finished, but the cricket season is far from over. While I was working, the radio would be on all day and, during a test match, it would be tuned to Test Match Special so long as I had a radio that would receive it. Since my retirement, I hadn't listened to very much cricket, despite having a DAB radio on my sideboard. This year, though, my interest has been re-kindled and I think I have listened to at least part of every day of the five-match series against India. Alongside this, I have discovered that this wonderful facility is not confined to the test matches but, with all-day network links that rival those for coverage of League football at the weekend, all the Spec-savers Championship games have been broadcast live on local radio and relayed - according to which matches are most exciting - on TMS!
So I've been filling my listening hours by following this in-depth commentary on a sport that I never played apart from as a very green schoolboy ... with skill that eventually led to my being appointed scorer for the school team! As I've done so, I've discovered that there is a very definite distinction between things I can and cannot do while there is cricket commentary in the background. Something that involves intricate work with a spreadsheet is quite feasible, for example, while anything that requires reading and/or thought has to be postponed. As a result, on occasion, I've spent long hours playing sudoku or snooker on my phone while other things have been 'parked' ... and then felt guilty about wasting my time!
A few months ago a friend made a passing reference to her voluntary activities in connection with a well known hospice based in our town and tossed out a comment about the variety of 'jobs' that are available there for willing volunteers. Following my abortive exploration of a part-time job with my former boss the other week, I remembered this conversation, and decided to 'push another door'. After a couple of misdirected phone calls, I struck lucky on Monday, and accepted an invitation to pop in for a chat. After a description of all that goes on in their warehouse and a conducted tour, arrangements were made for me to go along for a 'taster' shift this morning.
So far as I know, the operation is entirely self-funding, and to raise the necessary finance, the nearby towns support a chain of shops which both receive and sell a broad variety of donated goods. As well as providing storage facilities, the warehouse is a base for distributing the goods between the various shops, so my chance to see the system in action involved being a working passenger on a van visiting a couple of the outlying high-street stores. Next week, I shall hand in my application forms and decisions will be made whether, and in what way, I might make a regular appearance there.
The routine of the weekend was a 'normal' Sunday, with bell-ringing, helping with the singing and other rota duties at the church service and an afternoon and evening listening to radio and clicking away at the computer. The complementary excitement came on Saturday afternoon, when I joined in an rare event being celebrated by one of my friends from church. This week marks the twentieth anniversary of my friend's putting into effect her decision to come and live in this country. In that time, she has developed - to a remarkable extent, in my opinion - her skills in our (very strange!) language, found a husband and become a very settled mother-of-two and significant contributor to our church family life.
The test match series might well have finished, but the cricket season is far from over. While I was working, the radio would be on all day and, during a test match, it would be tuned to Test Match Special so long as I had a radio that would receive it. Since my retirement, I hadn't listened to very much cricket, despite having a DAB radio on my sideboard. This year, though, my interest has been re-kindled and I think I have listened to at least part of every day of the five-match series against India. Alongside this, I have discovered that this wonderful facility is not confined to the test matches but, with all-day network links that rival those for coverage of League football at the weekend, all the Spec-savers Championship games have been broadcast live on local radio and relayed - according to which matches are most exciting - on TMS!
So I've been filling my listening hours by following this in-depth commentary on a sport that I never played apart from as a very green schoolboy ... with skill that eventually led to my being appointed scorer for the school team! As I've done so, I've discovered that there is a very definite distinction between things I can and cannot do while there is cricket commentary in the background. Something that involves intricate work with a spreadsheet is quite feasible, for example, while anything that requires reading and/or thought has to be postponed. As a result, on occasion, I've spent long hours playing sudoku or snooker on my phone while other things have been 'parked' ... and then felt guilty about wasting my time!
A few months ago a friend made a passing reference to her voluntary activities in connection with a well known hospice based in our town and tossed out a comment about the variety of 'jobs' that are available there for willing volunteers. Following my abortive exploration of a part-time job with my former boss the other week, I remembered this conversation, and decided to 'push another door'. After a couple of misdirected phone calls, I struck lucky on Monday, and accepted an invitation to pop in for a chat. After a description of all that goes on in their warehouse and a conducted tour, arrangements were made for me to go along for a 'taster' shift this morning.
So far as I know, the operation is entirely self-funding, and to raise the necessary finance, the nearby towns support a chain of shops which both receive and sell a broad variety of donated goods. As well as providing storage facilities, the warehouse is a base for distributing the goods between the various shops, so my chance to see the system in action involved being a working passenger on a van visiting a couple of the outlying high-street stores. Next week, I shall hand in my application forms and decisions will be made whether, and in what way, I might make a regular appearance there.
Friday, 14 September 2018
September Mourning
It seems that, when September comes, it brings with it each year pretty much the same emotions about life's journey. There are the annual pictures of little ones being left at the school gate with shiny new bag - or elder sibling's hand - clutched tightly, leaving a tear in mother's eye as another milestone in the life of her child passes, never to return. Further down the line are similar, but perhaps more easily stifled, responses to later transitions: to a new school, or college or leaving for far-off parts as they put into practice those rudimentary aims for a 'gap year'.
Mother Nature is ever quick to respond with what my English teacher used to describe as 'her sympathetic background'. We notice the browning of leaves as they prepare to line gutters instead of branches, and with advancing age comes the earlier noticing of lower temperatures, the need for an extra layer of clothing ... along with the frustration of its not being required during the middle of the day when that lingering sunshine still bears some power.
One thing I noticed this year was the dormant spider hanging motionless for days on end, suspended in the large web on the outside of my kitchen window and looking for all the world as if it has passed its allotted life-span. Then along comes the shower that I thought would be nature's undertaker, washing away the cadaver, only for me then to see that it has sprung to life once again and has scrambled to the security of the frame along which the edge of the web had been fastened.
This afternoon I attended the funeral of someone whom I had the privilege to know only for a small proportion of his nearly 87 years and, in the wake of this (sorry, no pun intended), it's easy for me to move my thoughts on from the autumn of the year, to the autumn of life itself.
Yesterday morning I found myself quite alone on arriving at the Salvation Army hall. As I erected tables and spread a gingham check cloth on each one, something triggered recollection of a passing comment made to me by my mother (now dead these fourteen years) that she would like to have owned or run a small roadside tea-shop. I thought of her 'looking down' at her son, performing the same tasks that would have suited that occupation.
I can't recall now when it was she told me this, nor - perhaps more significantly - at what phase of her life she had had this unfulfilled desire. Did she consider this in her early adulthood, after a short while in domestic service, followed by a succession of jobs in retail? How advanced, if at all, were her plans when they were possibly kicked into the long grass by the outbreak of war? Or was this an ambition of more mature years, possibly with a prospective husband in mind? Was it before or after she met my father?
So far as I remember, the matter was only mentioned once and I can only imagine that my response was simple acknowledgement, with no attempt to draw out any further detail. The matter-of-fact attitude that I had to life in those days would probably have not considered it important enough to follow up. Indeed it's taken me twenty or thirty years to remember it at all! How different my life would have been if it had become reality! One thing is certain ... I wouldn't have been writing this blog today!
Mother Nature is ever quick to respond with what my English teacher used to describe as 'her sympathetic background'. We notice the browning of leaves as they prepare to line gutters instead of branches, and with advancing age comes the earlier noticing of lower temperatures, the need for an extra layer of clothing ... along with the frustration of its not being required during the middle of the day when that lingering sunshine still bears some power.
One thing I noticed this year was the dormant spider hanging motionless for days on end, suspended in the large web on the outside of my kitchen window and looking for all the world as if it has passed its allotted life-span. Then along comes the shower that I thought would be nature's undertaker, washing away the cadaver, only for me then to see that it has sprung to life once again and has scrambled to the security of the frame along which the edge of the web had been fastened.
This afternoon I attended the funeral of someone whom I had the privilege to know only for a small proportion of his nearly 87 years and, in the wake of this (sorry, no pun intended), it's easy for me to move my thoughts on from the autumn of the year, to the autumn of life itself.
Yesterday morning I found myself quite alone on arriving at the Salvation Army hall. As I erected tables and spread a gingham check cloth on each one, something triggered recollection of a passing comment made to me by my mother (now dead these fourteen years) that she would like to have owned or run a small roadside tea-shop. I thought of her 'looking down' at her son, performing the same tasks that would have suited that occupation.
I can't recall now when it was she told me this, nor - perhaps more significantly - at what phase of her life she had had this unfulfilled desire. Did she consider this in her early adulthood, after a short while in domestic service, followed by a succession of jobs in retail? How advanced, if at all, were her plans when they were possibly kicked into the long grass by the outbreak of war? Or was this an ambition of more mature years, possibly with a prospective husband in mind? Was it before or after she met my father?
So far as I remember, the matter was only mentioned once and I can only imagine that my response was simple acknowledgement, with no attempt to draw out any further detail. The matter-of-fact attitude that I had to life in those days would probably have not considered it important enough to follow up. Indeed it's taken me twenty or thirty years to remember it at all! How different my life would have been if it had become reality! One thing is certain ... I wouldn't have been writing this blog today!
Friday, 7 September 2018
Celebrations, but Alongside Disappointments
A few weeks ago, still dazed by the surprise, I described the remarkable circumstances that had led to the discovery of my second cousin's fiancée. On that occasion the main topic of conversation was the detail of his relationship to me, partly in order to establish my own bona fides, and to convince this lady that I was no ordinary 'stage door lounger'. Consequently I came away knowing very little about her other than her name.
Last Saturday was their wedding day. I hadn't expected an invitation on the strength of nothing more than that encounter, and so had gone to watch an FA Vase tie at Ely, where the local team were playing Norwich United, a club that has fascinated me ever since I first learned of their existence some eight years ago. I'd never seen them play, but as a Norfolk boy myself, I was hoping they would win. Amidst groans from the home fans, they scored the first goal and were 2-1 up at the interval. Ely then scored again after the break, making the scores equal after 90 minutes and extra time was called for, during which three more goals left the home team 4-3 winners.
I returned home to restore my spirits by taking advantage of arrangements that had been made to stream the wedding on Facebook. Thanks to the consideration of a musical couple who were well aware that there would be many friends and relatives for whom distance and/or space in the hall would preclude attendance, I was able to sit in rapt enjoyment, a virtual fly-on-the-wall for an hour-and-a-half, absorbing and vicariously sharing the happiness of their afternoon. Little did I know that more delight was even then being prepared.
All that I had been able to glean about the bride from the internet since our encounter had been purely speculative. On Monday and Tuesday, Facebook carried a number of individual collections of photos from the nuptials and, from the various comments on the pictures, I was able to confirm some of my findings and refute others, and to build up sufficient detail to enable me with confidence to add her to my family tree records. I had been quite amazed by the streaming of the wedding ceremony; on Monday I discovered that the same means had been used to provide a couple of hours viewing of an entertainment that this enterprising couple had devised for the Saturday evening! Some of the photos also revealed the ritual disfigurement of the going-away vehicle, which had required some cleansing activity to make it legal to drive!
On Tuesday evening, football once more took pride of place in my activities. Ten days before, I had been at an FA Cup match that had had to be abandoned after 58 minutes (with my favoured team 3-2 ahead) because of serious injuries to two of the visiting players. This Tuesday saw the re-match, which started off well, but the strength of the opposition was too much and I left after watching a 5-3 demolition of the locals' Cup hopes.
All was not lost, excitement-wise, however, for there was more celebration to come last night, when our church saw the installation of the lady who is now (I almost wrote 'to be', which has been the case since her selection some months ago now, and has become habitual) our new Vicar. Although her authority takes effect at a specific moment - like when at a wedding the priest says, 'you are man and wife' - she has been 'on the scene' for a few weeks since moving into the vicarage. During this time the family have been settling in and undergoing the same transitions that anyone does on moving house. Meanwhile, there has been infrequent, informal contact with key people in the church in order to make various necessary arrangements. In no way did this detract from the sense of occasion when the Bishop proclaimed, 'You have a new vicar!' and the clapping, cheering and whooping would have rivalled that at many a stadium to greet a winning goal!
Sadly winning goals didn't figure in my diary this week, but there has been more than adequate compensation!
Last Saturday was their wedding day. I hadn't expected an invitation on the strength of nothing more than that encounter, and so had gone to watch an FA Vase tie at Ely, where the local team were playing Norwich United, a club that has fascinated me ever since I first learned of their existence some eight years ago. I'd never seen them play, but as a Norfolk boy myself, I was hoping they would win. Amidst groans from the home fans, they scored the first goal and were 2-1 up at the interval. Ely then scored again after the break, making the scores equal after 90 minutes and extra time was called for, during which three more goals left the home team 4-3 winners.
I returned home to restore my spirits by taking advantage of arrangements that had been made to stream the wedding on Facebook. Thanks to the consideration of a musical couple who were well aware that there would be many friends and relatives for whom distance and/or space in the hall would preclude attendance, I was able to sit in rapt enjoyment, a virtual fly-on-the-wall for an hour-and-a-half, absorbing and vicariously sharing the happiness of their afternoon. Little did I know that more delight was even then being prepared.
All that I had been able to glean about the bride from the internet since our encounter had been purely speculative. On Monday and Tuesday, Facebook carried a number of individual collections of photos from the nuptials and, from the various comments on the pictures, I was able to confirm some of my findings and refute others, and to build up sufficient detail to enable me with confidence to add her to my family tree records. I had been quite amazed by the streaming of the wedding ceremony; on Monday I discovered that the same means had been used to provide a couple of hours viewing of an entertainment that this enterprising couple had devised for the Saturday evening! Some of the photos also revealed the ritual disfigurement of the going-away vehicle, which had required some cleansing activity to make it legal to drive!
On Tuesday evening, football once more took pride of place in my activities. Ten days before, I had been at an FA Cup match that had had to be abandoned after 58 minutes (with my favoured team 3-2 ahead) because of serious injuries to two of the visiting players. This Tuesday saw the re-match, which started off well, but the strength of the opposition was too much and I left after watching a 5-3 demolition of the locals' Cup hopes.
All was not lost, excitement-wise, however, for there was more celebration to come last night, when our church saw the installation of the lady who is now (I almost wrote 'to be', which has been the case since her selection some months ago now, and has become habitual) our new Vicar. Although her authority takes effect at a specific moment - like when at a wedding the priest says, 'you are man and wife' - she has been 'on the scene' for a few weeks since moving into the vicarage. During this time the family have been settling in and undergoing the same transitions that anyone does on moving house. Meanwhile, there has been infrequent, informal contact with key people in the church in order to make various necessary arrangements. In no way did this detract from the sense of occasion when the Bishop proclaimed, 'You have a new vicar!' and the clapping, cheering and whooping would have rivalled that at many a stadium to greet a winning goal!
Sadly winning goals didn't figure in my diary this week, but there has been more than adequate compensation!
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