It's been a tiring week for me, but much more so for others close to me.
But, to start at the beginning ... it began in an orderly and planned way. I may have mentioned that my friend and I have been working for some months on a plan to distribute our church Christmas cards. Last weekend was the time of testing, when all the cards, bundled into 'walks' for easy distribution, were available for collection by the volunteers. It was nice to see the whole thing coming to a conclusion, a week ahead of schedule and well before the usual pre-Christmas panic that seems to overwhelm everyone.
A little photographic game has been going the rounds on Facebook in recent days. In common with many people, I was invited to post a series of black-and-white pictures illustrating, without comment and without the inclusion of people in the pictures, my everyday life. Some had taken up the challenge by posting high points of their past or their travels, but I decided that my seven pictures would tell the story of a potentially real day, and the idea of being in black and white added a sense of drama. I began with the bed I'd just got out of, continued through interests that might typically be included in a day of my life, and ended with the washing up that I might come home to after an evening out. In the light of what was to come, such a return could be termed a 'jagged edge': something broken off, the threads of which would need to be taken up again.
On Sunday evening I attended a one-off performance of a new musical - so new that it was introduced as a 'work in progress' - at our local theatre. Called 'The Navigator', it was set in the RAF of wartime. Although the cast and musicians had only been working together for a fortnight, the acting and movements were smooth and convincing, the singing clear and powerful; in short, to my eye at least, the whole performance was faultless. It told the story of the crew of a bomber, Q for Queenie, and movingly illustrated the effect of the war on these men and on their interaction with each other and with the women in their lives. Above all, the image I was left with was the way that war, and the death that it brings with it, slices across the lives of all it touches, having its own way, and leaving the jagged edges of unfinished - often unfinishable - business behind it. After such a performance, it was easy to recognise such an effect on my own family and others I knew, but it's important too to realise that the same tragedy is going on across the world today.
As I went about my 'everyday life' in the following days: the regular prayer breakfast, a visit to the hairdresser, catching up with my Welsh course (neglected for a variety of reasons for some weeks lately), preparing my own Christmas cards, and so on, I little realised how my life was about to be impacted in something of a similar way.
My friend's little boy had not been well for a couple of days and, instead of going to nursery as usual, had slept most of Tuesday. By Wednesday morning there seemed to be an improvement, and all seemed well. Suddenly around lunchtime, came an urgent appeal for prayers ... he was about to be rushed to hospital having difficulty breathing! It may seem a strange admission but, as I later described it, I found myself learning something about what real love must feel like. Although I have no 'actual' relationship to the boy or his family, I've become very fond of them all in recent months and, I confess it, I was in floods of anxious tears as I prayed earnestly for his well-being, and safe passage through whatever ails him.
These last two days have passed in something of a blur and, with the news that antibiotics and hospital treatment seem at last to have set him on the road to recovery, I'm only now able to focus properly on what I'm doing. We had a Bible study meeting on Wednesday afternoon, and the number of times I lost track of what I should have been leading was embarrassing; yesterday I was ringing for a funeral, and my thoughts were very definitely not with either the deceased or his widow. If I hadn't been ringing bells for nearly 50 years, it could easily have gone so terribly wrong!
Looking back from the sunshine of Friday morning, not just on these immediate events but the shape of the whole week, I begin to see a continuity, an understanding of the very fragility of life and how easily it can be dramatically disrupted. Worse, I realise that what I have experienced is only from the outside.
How much more disrupted have been the lives of those actually involved, whether it be in illness, in the other dramas of normal life, or in the sacrifices of war. No wonder, then, that many of those who had survived the horrors of the Western Front or the suffering of the Far East prison and labour camps - or the home-front shock of bereavement - were reluctant, perhaps unable, to share their experiences!
Friday, 24 November 2017
Friday, 17 November 2017
Getting it Wrong (or) One Thing Leads to Another
There's nothing like finding out that you've got something wrong for deflation of the ego or, on other occasions, making you feel a bit of a fool. And there's nothing like a busy week for getting something wrong! You've caught me at the end of such a week. Come in, and I'll tell you more ...
Last weekend was Remembrance and, as I stood in church for the usual words that followed the two minutes' silence, I was suddenly - and unusually - overcome by my emotions.
It wasn't "They shall not grow old ...", it was the other one, "When you go home ..."; words that prompted thoughts of 'the uncle I never knew'. These words are usually associated with the Burma Star Association, and are known as the Kohima Epitaph, after the memorial erected to the memory of the British 2nd Infantry Division who defended Kohima in north-east India against the Japanese in 1944. By this time my uncle, who was captured at the fall of Singapore in February 1942, had already died of malaria on the Burma Railway. However, the close geographical association has always associated the Kohima words with him in my mind.
When I explained these emotions, both at the time and later, I had used the expression, 'Kohima Farewell', and it wasn't until I researched the whole episode later that I realised that this is not only incorrect, but actually refers to something far nearer the present day!
I had posted a picture of my uncle on Facebook at the weekend, and this had been spotted by a cousin now living in Australia, who had been moved to make contact as a result. So it was that, on Tuesday evening, I began to look into the family history in this particular direction. Wednesday was particularly busy, and so it wasn't until last night (Thursday) that I finally got around to completing my researches and sent off the final report.
This morning brought the embarrassing news that I had made a dramatic error in preparing the chart. I had committed the genealogist's cardinal sin - assumption. I had found an appropriate marriage for one particular man, and entered it into the tree; I'm now informed that this was not only incorrect, but had taken place some years after his untimely death! Corrections and apologies are now in place, and egg slowly being wiped from face!
So, yes, this has been a busy week, not least because of these events, but also in the light of some of the early preparations for Christmas. Wednesday evening found me dealing with the remaining congestion from a cold, while practising for a couple of choral items for the carol service. It was also the day when my other blog, The Gospel Around Us (affectionately known as GAU), was published. I'm not normally give to blowing my own trumpet but, in case you are one who originally found GAU from the note on this blog, you may have found it missing recently. This is because I have moved it to its own website, which will offer me more development potential for the future. You can find the continuing twice-monthly posts of GAU by following the revised link in the side-bar of this blog, or by clicking here.
Last weekend was Remembrance and, as I stood in church for the usual words that followed the two minutes' silence, I was suddenly - and unusually - overcome by my emotions.
 |
| The Kohima Memorial |
When I explained these emotions, both at the time and later, I had used the expression, 'Kohima Farewell', and it wasn't until I researched the whole episode later that I realised that this is not only incorrect, but actually refers to something far nearer the present day!
I had posted a picture of my uncle on Facebook at the weekend, and this had been spotted by a cousin now living in Australia, who had been moved to make contact as a result. So it was that, on Tuesday evening, I began to look into the family history in this particular direction. Wednesday was particularly busy, and so it wasn't until last night (Thursday) that I finally got around to completing my researches and sent off the final report.
This morning brought the embarrassing news that I had made a dramatic error in preparing the chart. I had committed the genealogist's cardinal sin - assumption. I had found an appropriate marriage for one particular man, and entered it into the tree; I'm now informed that this was not only incorrect, but had taken place some years after his untimely death! Corrections and apologies are now in place, and egg slowly being wiped from face!
So, yes, this has been a busy week, not least because of these events, but also in the light of some of the early preparations for Christmas. Wednesday evening found me dealing with the remaining congestion from a cold, while practising for a couple of choral items for the carol service. It was also the day when my other blog, The Gospel Around Us (affectionately known as GAU), was published. I'm not normally give to blowing my own trumpet but, in case you are one who originally found GAU from the note on this blog, you may have found it missing recently. This is because I have moved it to its own website, which will offer me more development potential for the future. You can find the continuing twice-monthly posts of GAU by following the revised link in the side-bar of this blog, or by clicking here.
Friday, 10 November 2017
Postponed, Maybe, but now it's Personal!
Life is full of surprises. Last week I closed my post with the words, "Watch this space!" So now I'm going to follow that up ... but I didn't expect to be writing what follows.
For the last few days I have been suffering (typical man-speak here) from a cold. As usual, it's worst when first getting up in the morning but, for most of the time, it's no bother. However, I did decide to cancel one or two engagements for the sake of not infecting vulnerable people with my germs. One of those was my intended help at the Salvation Army's new project for the homeless. And that's where this follow-up post could stop, suspended until I actually go along. But read on ...
As regular readers will know (and will possibly be bored by hearing it), I've spent much of the last year first producing, and then catching up behind, a twin family tree presentation for my cousin's golden wedding in March. This catch-up is almost complete now, and the final phase results from the discovery that the newly-printed latest version of my complete tree does not include all possible birth and death dates. Many approximations based on baptism and burial dates have been omitted, making the whole appear far less complete than is the case. To overcome this, I've been examining each page in some detail and so far am about half-way through the exercise.
On Tuesday, I was looking at the page that shows my great-grandfather and his siblings. He was one of a family of nine: seven boys and two girls. The eldest son died at the age of three-and-a-half, and the third lived only a few days. Great-grandfather William, born 10th December 1827, was the fourth son and, when the next child arrived on 26th May 1829, he was called Robert, the name of his parents' late first-born. He was followed by a daughter, Harriet, a son who was named James after the other son who died, a second daughter, Elizabeth, and, on 15th August 1835 came the family's youngest, Cyrus. The family lived in the tiny north Suffolk village of Syleham; just across the river lie two Norfolk villages, Thorpe Abbotts to the west and Brockdish to the east, and there were many ties linking these three. One such tie was the attraction to Robert of a girl from Thorpe Abbotts named Elizabeth Flatman. She was about 19 when they married on 7th December 1850.
Robert died at Brockdish in July or August 1864, and later that year Elizabeth married Alfred Rush. As I examined this part of the family tree, I could see that Elizabeth had had two daughters, Eliza and Clara, with Robert, and then went on to have a family of seven with Alfred. Upon closer examination, however, I noticed that the first three of that seven had been born before 1864, so clearly should have been in the other family. I was about to correct what I saw as an error created by oversight some years ago, when the caution born of several more years of research kicked in and told me to go back to the original records ... or as near to them as is possible.
Now, my records use two entirely separate computer programs, one to produce the printed tree and the other which holds the details, so my first step in tracing this back was to the detail, where I had recorded against all these three Rush children, 'Registered as Evans'. Why, then, had I quite deliberately recorded them as Rush, and added them to the Rush family? I looked again at the census records. The family in 1871 looked quite normal: Alfred and Elizabeth Rush with children William, Charles, Ann, Ellen, Alice and John (the seventh child - another Clara; the first Clara had died aged one in 1857 - was born in 1872).
I turned to the earlier census of 1861, where a very different family was revealed. Here I found - as I had when I entered these records to my system - Alfred Rush as the head of the household, and Elizabeth Evans, described as a widow and, where the conventional relationship entry would be 'wife', had been written 'not married'. All three children, Eliza, William and Charles, instead of sons and daughter, had been described boldly, 'illegitimate'. This answered my immediate question, and indeed suggested that even a two:seven split of the nine children was in error!
What, then, had happened? Why did Elizabeth describe herself as a widow in 1861, when Robert didn't die until 1864? There are many unanswered - possibly unanswerable - questions. Did Robert have a personality problem? Had Elizabeth been in a romantic daze when they had married and later found the love she sought with an older man (Alfred was seven years older than Robert)? Why were there no children of an 1850 marriage until the arrival of Eliza in 1855? ... and she later declared 'illegitimate'! Whatever had been going on between Elizabeth and Alfred, one question I could address was, where was Robert in 1861? The answer shocked and saddened me ... and provides the key link for this blog.
The 1861 census for Brockdish ends in the Street, with the blacksmith's shop and two households at the toy shop, one headed by a carpenter, the other by a cordwainer. But then there is an additional page containing just two people. The first shows as an address, 'Street - hayloft'; the occupant is Sira Evans, unmarried, aged 27, a farm labourer born in Syleham. The second entry is 'open air; Robert Evans, unmarried, aged 38, a farm labourer born in Syleham'. Yes, there are discrepancies in their ages, but in those days many people, especially the labouring classes, were unaware exactly how old they were. The circumstantial evidence strongly suggests that these were my two great-great-uncles. When Robert died his age was recorded as 40. I've not yet been able to find out what happened to his brother Cyrus.
Homelessness may be a problem today, and was probably a far more serious matter for those who were homeless 150 years ago, but the causes then - as now - were probably just the same, and just as complex.
For the last few days I have been suffering (typical man-speak here) from a cold. As usual, it's worst when first getting up in the morning but, for most of the time, it's no bother. However, I did decide to cancel one or two engagements for the sake of not infecting vulnerable people with my germs. One of those was my intended help at the Salvation Army's new project for the homeless. And that's where this follow-up post could stop, suspended until I actually go along. But read on ...
As regular readers will know (and will possibly be bored by hearing it), I've spent much of the last year first producing, and then catching up behind, a twin family tree presentation for my cousin's golden wedding in March. This catch-up is almost complete now, and the final phase results from the discovery that the newly-printed latest version of my complete tree does not include all possible birth and death dates. Many approximations based on baptism and burial dates have been omitted, making the whole appear far less complete than is the case. To overcome this, I've been examining each page in some detail and so far am about half-way through the exercise.
On Tuesday, I was looking at the page that shows my great-grandfather and his siblings. He was one of a family of nine: seven boys and two girls. The eldest son died at the age of three-and-a-half, and the third lived only a few days. Great-grandfather William, born 10th December 1827, was the fourth son and, when the next child arrived on 26th May 1829, he was called Robert, the name of his parents' late first-born. He was followed by a daughter, Harriet, a son who was named James after the other son who died, a second daughter, Elizabeth, and, on 15th August 1835 came the family's youngest, Cyrus. The family lived in the tiny north Suffolk village of Syleham; just across the river lie two Norfolk villages, Thorpe Abbotts to the west and Brockdish to the east, and there were many ties linking these three. One such tie was the attraction to Robert of a girl from Thorpe Abbotts named Elizabeth Flatman. She was about 19 when they married on 7th December 1850.
Robert died at Brockdish in July or August 1864, and later that year Elizabeth married Alfred Rush. As I examined this part of the family tree, I could see that Elizabeth had had two daughters, Eliza and Clara, with Robert, and then went on to have a family of seven with Alfred. Upon closer examination, however, I noticed that the first three of that seven had been born before 1864, so clearly should have been in the other family. I was about to correct what I saw as an error created by oversight some years ago, when the caution born of several more years of research kicked in and told me to go back to the original records ... or as near to them as is possible.
Now, my records use two entirely separate computer programs, one to produce the printed tree and the other which holds the details, so my first step in tracing this back was to the detail, where I had recorded against all these three Rush children, 'Registered as Evans'. Why, then, had I quite deliberately recorded them as Rush, and added them to the Rush family? I looked again at the census records. The family in 1871 looked quite normal: Alfred and Elizabeth Rush with children William, Charles, Ann, Ellen, Alice and John (the seventh child - another Clara; the first Clara had died aged one in 1857 - was born in 1872).
I turned to the earlier census of 1861, where a very different family was revealed. Here I found - as I had when I entered these records to my system - Alfred Rush as the head of the household, and Elizabeth Evans, described as a widow and, where the conventional relationship entry would be 'wife', had been written 'not married'. All three children, Eliza, William and Charles, instead of sons and daughter, had been described boldly, 'illegitimate'. This answered my immediate question, and indeed suggested that even a two:seven split of the nine children was in error!
What, then, had happened? Why did Elizabeth describe herself as a widow in 1861, when Robert didn't die until 1864? There are many unanswered - possibly unanswerable - questions. Did Robert have a personality problem? Had Elizabeth been in a romantic daze when they had married and later found the love she sought with an older man (Alfred was seven years older than Robert)? Why were there no children of an 1850 marriage until the arrival of Eliza in 1855? ... and she later declared 'illegitimate'! Whatever had been going on between Elizabeth and Alfred, one question I could address was, where was Robert in 1861? The answer shocked and saddened me ... and provides the key link for this blog.
The 1861 census for Brockdish ends in the Street, with the blacksmith's shop and two households at the toy shop, one headed by a carpenter, the other by a cordwainer. But then there is an additional page containing just two people. The first shows as an address, 'Street - hayloft'; the occupant is Sira Evans, unmarried, aged 27, a farm labourer born in Syleham. The second entry is 'open air; Robert Evans, unmarried, aged 38, a farm labourer born in Syleham'. Yes, there are discrepancies in their ages, but in those days many people, especially the labouring classes, were unaware exactly how old they were. The circumstantial evidence strongly suggests that these were my two great-great-uncles. When Robert died his age was recorded as 40. I've not yet been able to find out what happened to his brother Cyrus.
Homelessness may be a problem today, and was probably a far more serious matter for those who were homeless 150 years ago, but the causes then - as now - were probably just the same, and just as complex.
Friday, 3 November 2017
Spot the Difference!
A friend of mine claimed recently that she makes a note of one thing she has learned every day. In my opinion that demonstrates an enquiring mind, and a humble attitude to life, acknowledging the falsehood of claiming 'I know all about <anything>'. Today I'm taking a leaf out of her book and will tell you what I have learned. This week I've discovered the difference between incompetence and incompleteness.
On Monday evening I succumbed to an overwhelming sense of incompetence. I was (in theory) taking part in a conversation about changes in comedy in recent years compared to thirty or forty years ago. In practice, however, I was only a witness to the conversation, finding myself unable to contribute to the discussion. Most, if not all of the modern examples referred to were unknown to me, and I felt there was definitely something missing in my life.
The next day another friend was planning a quiet hour in the midst of a busy schedule and, learning of my angst, offered to share that time with me. From a far-reaching café table conversation that nudged me back to reality, I'll pick out just one key point, "You do so much!". Thinking around my retired lifestyle, I can see the truth of that, but I'm also aware that much of what I do is less than satisfying because it isn't finished. Let me offer some evidence of that.
Three years and more ago, I obtained a book written by a fellow-writer. It is one of those self-examination books, with a few questions at the end of each chapter. I dug in with gusto upon its arrival, and covered several chapters quite quickly; one winter, I did a couple more, but it still sits on my table, less than half-completed. Last week saw the arrival of her second volume. This has now joined its fellow, and reminded me that here is a task not yet finished - incomplete, but not a sign of my incompetence, for there is documentary evidence of my having progressed through those early chapters.
About this time last year, I realised that I had booked a bell-ringing weekend that coincided with my cousin's golden wedding celebrations, and hit on a novel way I could provide a suitable gift - a twin family tree of both her and her husband. It wasn't until the task was well under way that I realised that, to complete both to an equal degree of compass and precision, I should have to cut some corners from my normal research routines. This in turn meant that, after the presentation, there was a good deal of 'catch-up' activity. With no urgency to this, it was completed only quite recently and it seemed a good point at which to print out the over 180 pages of my whole researched ancestry so far discovered, and replace the last edition created several years ago.
As I carefully replaced one set of pages with the other, I realised that a number of dates were missing from the print-out, mainly because burial dates - although a fair guide to an immediately-preceding death - don't automatically substitute for death dates! So I'm now slowly ploughing through the new pages, adding those dates manually for the time being, and noting which pages will ultimately need to be replaced. It's another task that isn't finished, but which doesn't imply any inability to achieve the desired end in time.
And finally, comes news of a new project, not one of my own, but one in which I hope to play a small part. Despite its outward appearance of comfortable prosperity, our town has a small but not insignificant homeless problem. The local Salvation Army corps has decided to try to alleviate some of the misery that this condition places upon its victims, and other churches including mine have pledged their support. Yesterday there was a meeting to plan in particular how this will be kicked off next week.
As someone who has for the most part led a very solitary life, I find it difficult to engage with strangers, and had hitherto been of the opinion that anything of this nature was beyond my capability and best left to the experts ... or at least to other people. There is something about this particular cause, however, that commands my closer attention, and I decided that the time had come for me to 'bite the bullet'. I have no doubt that, once started, this project will grow, but how it will affect me is for the moment somewhat uncertain. It's very much a case of watch this space!
On Monday evening I succumbed to an overwhelming sense of incompetence. I was (in theory) taking part in a conversation about changes in comedy in recent years compared to thirty or forty years ago. In practice, however, I was only a witness to the conversation, finding myself unable to contribute to the discussion. Most, if not all of the modern examples referred to were unknown to me, and I felt there was definitely something missing in my life.
The next day another friend was planning a quiet hour in the midst of a busy schedule and, learning of my angst, offered to share that time with me. From a far-reaching café table conversation that nudged me back to reality, I'll pick out just one key point, "You do so much!". Thinking around my retired lifestyle, I can see the truth of that, but I'm also aware that much of what I do is less than satisfying because it isn't finished. Let me offer some evidence of that.
Three years and more ago, I obtained a book written by a fellow-writer. It is one of those self-examination books, with a few questions at the end of each chapter. I dug in with gusto upon its arrival, and covered several chapters quite quickly; one winter, I did a couple more, but it still sits on my table, less than half-completed. Last week saw the arrival of her second volume. This has now joined its fellow, and reminded me that here is a task not yet finished - incomplete, but not a sign of my incompetence, for there is documentary evidence of my having progressed through those early chapters.
About this time last year, I realised that I had booked a bell-ringing weekend that coincided with my cousin's golden wedding celebrations, and hit on a novel way I could provide a suitable gift - a twin family tree of both her and her husband. It wasn't until the task was well under way that I realised that, to complete both to an equal degree of compass and precision, I should have to cut some corners from my normal research routines. This in turn meant that, after the presentation, there was a good deal of 'catch-up' activity. With no urgency to this, it was completed only quite recently and it seemed a good point at which to print out the over 180 pages of my whole researched ancestry so far discovered, and replace the last edition created several years ago.
As I carefully replaced one set of pages with the other, I realised that a number of dates were missing from the print-out, mainly because burial dates - although a fair guide to an immediately-preceding death - don't automatically substitute for death dates! So I'm now slowly ploughing through the new pages, adding those dates manually for the time being, and noting which pages will ultimately need to be replaced. It's another task that isn't finished, but which doesn't imply any inability to achieve the desired end in time.
And finally, comes news of a new project, not one of my own, but one in which I hope to play a small part. Despite its outward appearance of comfortable prosperity, our town has a small but not insignificant homeless problem. The local Salvation Army corps has decided to try to alleviate some of the misery that this condition places upon its victims, and other churches including mine have pledged their support. Yesterday there was a meeting to plan in particular how this will be kicked off next week.
As someone who has for the most part led a very solitary life, I find it difficult to engage with strangers, and had hitherto been of the opinion that anything of this nature was beyond my capability and best left to the experts ... or at least to other people. There is something about this particular cause, however, that commands my closer attention, and I decided that the time had come for me to 'bite the bullet'. I have no doubt that, once started, this project will grow, but how it will affect me is for the moment somewhat uncertain. It's very much a case of watch this space!
Friday, 27 October 2017
Growing Up
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| Passchendaele Poopy Pin Photo: Royal British Legion |
Now that it has arrived - with amazing efficiency and speed! - I find myself wondering about those young men commemorated, many of whom would have been in their late teens or early twenties, and I have tried to think what might have been important in my life at that age. Work would have been very prominent: was my job going to last? would a day-by-day job turn into a profitable and useful career? Also high on the list would have been girls, dreams of getting married, starting a family; in those days that was really the only way a young man would leave home, unless going to university or joining the armed forces.
With my mind thus tuned to teenage, I recalled what was probably the first time I ever spent a night away from my family home. I was fifteen or sixteen, and had been admitted to hospital for a minor operation. It would almost certainly have been dealt with today on a 'day-surgery' basis, but in the '60s it meant being admitted on Monday and finally discharged, and brought home by a kindly neighbour possessed of a motor car, on Sunday morning. The operation was carried out on Tuesday and, since it didn't impair my mobility, I was quickly wandering about the ward, or spending time in the day room chatting to the only other young man there. I was considered too old for the children's ward, and most of the other men around me were so old as to be no company for a teenager.
As my memory of that week came back to me, I recalled one particular nurse named Mary. Only a few years older than me, I suppose she was more empathetic than some of her colleagues; seeing me clearly bored, she suggested that I come and help her. It would never be allowed now, of course, but I was quickly taught how to fold 'hospital corners' and helped her make all the beds. It's a skill that has never left me, even though I'd not used it for many years until recently. This all took place during the long summer holiday and after my discharge I had time for more adventures before returning to school. One day I took my cycle on the train to Norwich, found where Mary lived and took a photograph of her!
Yesterday, I surprised myself by the power of modern computer software. In half an hour, I was able to discover the names of Mary's parents, when they were married, the fact that Mary was a twin, when she was married, the names and ages of their two sons, and the address at which, for at least ten years, the family was living in the suburbs of that 'Fine City'! I found the house on Google, and - amazingly - there were people outside, one of whom could well have been this lady!
It would be completely out of order to make contact with her after all these years but - if she remembers me at all out of the hundreds of patients she must have looked after - I wonder how she would react to the thought that a skill she passed on over fifty years ago is still in use today!
Friday, 20 October 2017
Solo Performance
On Monday this week I had occasion to visit Christine, who has been an acquaintance through our church connections for many years. As we sat in her lounge, I was quite surprised by the depth of our conversation. Now 75, she and her husband either had just celebrated or were looking forward to - to my shame, I can't recall which - their 47th wedding anniversary.
She referred to one of her bridesmaids, now living in the far north of Scotland, who was unable to attend their celebrations. They had shared a room at boarding school. Her friend was a couple of years older and the school's policy was to pair girls up in that way so that new pupils could find their way. Christine said, "She was like a sister to me. I should have loved to have a sister ... but it just wasn't to be." Since I, too, was an only child, our conversation then explored this common factor a bit more.
The following day, I had been expecting another friend to visit me, but this had been called off, so instead of driving to the post office, I had ample time to walk. Now, I live in the industrial part of the Garden City, which is no longer solely industrial as was originally planned in the early twentieth century. This does mean, however, that the sight of heavy lorries on our nearby roads is quite commonplace, and a couple passed me as I walked along.
Inevitably, my thoughts went back to days before my retirement, to the times when I needed to park my tiny van next to a 40-tonne artic. at a busy distribution centre and queue with those elites of the driving world, waiting for instructions or for a delivery to be completed. Conversation on these occasions would reveal something of their lives. They worked on a larger scale, of course, but underneath were lives very similar to my own.
The life of a lorry driver, just as that of a same-day courier as I had been, is not for everyone. In many ways family life, if there is any, has to submit to a different one as part of a team, but a team of people whom you might see the next day, or not for two or three weeks. You might speak in the crew room of something happening that evening or at the weekend, and the next time you meet it would be, "how did so-and-so go?" by which time the whole event has passed into history.
I recalled the previous day's conversation when we had spoken of how being an only child had taught each of us to cope with life alone, whether on an odd occasion or for longer periods. Christine had asked me, "how long have you been on your own?" and I had replied "for most of my life really." I had told someone a couple of weeks ago that, in real terms, my family these days is the church and the bell-ringers. While this is true, I'm beginning to realise that it's less real than I'd thought, for I meet with those folks only once or twice a week for a limited period, so that 'family' is no more so than those fellow drivers of a few years ago.
I said 'beginning to realise'; this realisation is partly a consequence of another friendship, one aspect of which was the expected visit I referred to earlier, that had been called off. That message - so clear and irrefutable - was, I later realised, similar to many I've received down the years: 'a cold ... keeping my germs to myself.' I had got used to passing off such messages as excuses when people just didn't want to bother with me. This time such a thought never entered my head.
A day or so later, I made enquiries as to the progress of the cold. After the update came another warming comment. It said, "thank you for checking ... it's nice to feel ... that the thought is genuine." It told me that I was being trusted; it was the reciprocal of my earlier observation about trusting other people.
Trust like that is only really found in a family; it's something that had become foreign to me. That said, in recent years, I've gradually learned a lot about trust: trust when a well-paid job ends; trust when a financial crisis has a dramatic and almost overnight detrimental effect on weekly earnings; trust when age and circumstances mean that life has to take a whole new direction. I'm pleased to realise that this stage-by-stage learning process is still moving on.
She referred to one of her bridesmaids, now living in the far north of Scotland, who was unable to attend their celebrations. They had shared a room at boarding school. Her friend was a couple of years older and the school's policy was to pair girls up in that way so that new pupils could find their way. Christine said, "She was like a sister to me. I should have loved to have a sister ... but it just wasn't to be." Since I, too, was an only child, our conversation then explored this common factor a bit more.
The following day, I had been expecting another friend to visit me, but this had been called off, so instead of driving to the post office, I had ample time to walk. Now, I live in the industrial part of the Garden City, which is no longer solely industrial as was originally planned in the early twentieth century. This does mean, however, that the sight of heavy lorries on our nearby roads is quite commonplace, and a couple passed me as I walked along.
Inevitably, my thoughts went back to days before my retirement, to the times when I needed to park my tiny van next to a 40-tonne artic. at a busy distribution centre and queue with those elites of the driving world, waiting for instructions or for a delivery to be completed. Conversation on these occasions would reveal something of their lives. They worked on a larger scale, of course, but underneath were lives very similar to my own.
The life of a lorry driver, just as that of a same-day courier as I had been, is not for everyone. In many ways family life, if there is any, has to submit to a different one as part of a team, but a team of people whom you might see the next day, or not for two or three weeks. You might speak in the crew room of something happening that evening or at the weekend, and the next time you meet it would be, "how did so-and-so go?" by which time the whole event has passed into history.
I recalled the previous day's conversation when we had spoken of how being an only child had taught each of us to cope with life alone, whether on an odd occasion or for longer periods. Christine had asked me, "how long have you been on your own?" and I had replied "for most of my life really." I had told someone a couple of weeks ago that, in real terms, my family these days is the church and the bell-ringers. While this is true, I'm beginning to realise that it's less real than I'd thought, for I meet with those folks only once or twice a week for a limited period, so that 'family' is no more so than those fellow drivers of a few years ago.
I said 'beginning to realise'; this realisation is partly a consequence of another friendship, one aspect of which was the expected visit I referred to earlier, that had been called off. That message - so clear and irrefutable - was, I later realised, similar to many I've received down the years: 'a cold ... keeping my germs to myself.' I had got used to passing off such messages as excuses when people just didn't want to bother with me. This time such a thought never entered my head.
A day or so later, I made enquiries as to the progress of the cold. After the update came another warming comment. It said, "thank you for checking ... it's nice to feel ... that the thought is genuine." It told me that I was being trusted; it was the reciprocal of my earlier observation about trusting other people.
Trust like that is only really found in a family; it's something that had become foreign to me. That said, in recent years, I've gradually learned a lot about trust: trust when a well-paid job ends; trust when a financial crisis has a dramatic and almost overnight detrimental effect on weekly earnings; trust when age and circumstances mean that life has to take a whole new direction. I'm pleased to realise that this stage-by-stage learning process is still moving on.
Friday, 13 October 2017
An Ever-rolling Stream
I'd like to say that this week's title is as a result of an exciting journey in a picturesque landscape. A few years ago there would have been little doubt about that but, since retirement, such journeys are few and far between. Instead, the words come from a hymn often sung at Remembrance services: "Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away / They fly, forgotten, as a dream dies at the opening day."
This week's journey has certainly been exciting, but not in the sense of travel. Nevertheless, those lines are relevant in more senses than one. I thought of the effect of a river on the rocks and boulders in its path. What seems so hard and permanent is proved to be quite changeable as the river passes constantly over it and gradually wears it away. In the same way, something that seems insurmountable in life can melt away or take on a completely different shape.
When I joined the Liberal Democrats a couple of years ago, it was just before a leadership election. Because their constitution accords a vote on such matters to every member, however new, I received a phone call one day from Norman Lamb, asking for my support. Seeing from his notes that I was a new member, he asked why I'd joined the party and I gave him the same two reasons that I've told other people. One was the 'heritage factor', a passing comment by my father that his father (who died within a year of my birth, so I have no memory of him) "always spoke well of the 'little Welshman'" i.e. David Lloyd George. The other was a long-held observation that their way of politics was co-operational, rather than confrontational, which seems a very common-sense approach to so much in life.
Once I was proudly wearing the yellow dove, came the big question, 'what could I now do to further the cause?' I went to meetings, to a regional conference, to the launch of the general election campaign, but this was all 'taking in'; what could I 'give out'? I felt - and still do - a great reluctance to get involved in political discussion; it's one thing to hear a speech and feel in agreement with it ... it's entirely another to come up with the right answer to a question on the hoof (or the doorstep!). So far, I have contented myself with office help in election campaigns, folding leaflets and so on.
Unsurprisingly, therefore, when an e-mail arrived last week - part of an all-member circulation - asking if I'd like to stand as a candidate in next May's local elections, it was quickly on its way to the 'deleted' folder. A follow-up this week almost joined it ... until I noticed a phrase at the bottom, 'or an election agent'. Curious, I decided to find out what this might involve and, discovering that it sounds very much like being the accountant for the campaign, I'm now considering whether I want to be involved in a way I had never imagined before.
My other excitement is more personal. A particular problem had been occupying my thoughts for the last few weeks and I'd been finding more difficulty than usual in sleeping. Often I'd woken after a couple of hours' sound sleep and then lost an hour or two in a vain struggle to regain Morpheus' embrace. Over and over in my mind, I would replay potential conversations, alternative attempts to overcome this difficulty: if I were to say so-and-so, would that lead to ... or would it make things worse? I'm sure many others have played the same unproductive mind games before me.
This week, what I had anticipated with some apprehension as being the encounter that would herald the denouement of the matter, was suddenly precipitated into a business meeting. The parties assembled in readiness for this but, before the serious discussions began, conversation revealed that the problem that had confronted me was not precisely what I'd thought it to be. The sharing of views and an understanding of each other's situation quickly led to a solution that will, it seems, be beneficial to all parties and certainly one that I'm looking forward to seeing in action.
Some dreams, as in the hymn, die at the opening day ... others linger, turn into nightmares, and need tranquillity and common sense to dispel them.
When I joined the Liberal Democrats a couple of years ago, it was just before a leadership election. Because their constitution accords a vote on such matters to every member, however new, I received a phone call one day from Norman Lamb, asking for my support. Seeing from his notes that I was a new member, he asked why I'd joined the party and I gave him the same two reasons that I've told other people. One was the 'heritage factor', a passing comment by my father that his father (who died within a year of my birth, so I have no memory of him) "always spoke well of the 'little Welshman'" i.e. David Lloyd George. The other was a long-held observation that their way of politics was co-operational, rather than confrontational, which seems a very common-sense approach to so much in life.
Once I was proudly wearing the yellow dove, came the big question, 'what could I now do to further the cause?' I went to meetings, to a regional conference, to the launch of the general election campaign, but this was all 'taking in'; what could I 'give out'? I felt - and still do - a great reluctance to get involved in political discussion; it's one thing to hear a speech and feel in agreement with it ... it's entirely another to come up with the right answer to a question on the hoof (or the doorstep!). So far, I have contented myself with office help in election campaigns, folding leaflets and so on.
Unsurprisingly, therefore, when an e-mail arrived last week - part of an all-member circulation - asking if I'd like to stand as a candidate in next May's local elections, it was quickly on its way to the 'deleted' folder. A follow-up this week almost joined it ... until I noticed a phrase at the bottom, 'or an election agent'. Curious, I decided to find out what this might involve and, discovering that it sounds very much like being the accountant for the campaign, I'm now considering whether I want to be involved in a way I had never imagined before.
My other excitement is more personal. A particular problem had been occupying my thoughts for the last few weeks and I'd been finding more difficulty than usual in sleeping. Often I'd woken after a couple of hours' sound sleep and then lost an hour or two in a vain struggle to regain Morpheus' embrace. Over and over in my mind, I would replay potential conversations, alternative attempts to overcome this difficulty: if I were to say so-and-so, would that lead to ... or would it make things worse? I'm sure many others have played the same unproductive mind games before me.
This week, what I had anticipated with some apprehension as being the encounter that would herald the denouement of the matter, was suddenly precipitated into a business meeting. The parties assembled in readiness for this but, before the serious discussions began, conversation revealed that the problem that had confronted me was not precisely what I'd thought it to be. The sharing of views and an understanding of each other's situation quickly led to a solution that will, it seems, be beneficial to all parties and certainly one that I'm looking forward to seeing in action.
Some dreams, as in the hymn, die at the opening day ... others linger, turn into nightmares, and need tranquillity and common sense to dispel them.
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