How Was it for You?

Well, it's over for another year, that Christmas nightmare.

There are some people, we are told, for whom Christmas is 'a difficult time'.  I have to admit it, I'm one of them.  That expression is usually trotted out by people who are in a position to help and, to be fair to them, often do so to great effect.  This description of 'Christmas being a difficult time' has a variety of meanings, of course, depending upon the individuals.  Since I can only comment in depth on my own situation, I've been reflecting just what kind of help I do and don't appreciate.

One of the frustrations of living alone is food.  Fortunately supermarkets provide a wide range of 'meals for one', so there is no excuse for going hungry.  However, apart from a certain sameness of such a diet, there is also the question of additives and all the suspicion that surrounds them.  Since I finally retired, I have ensured that at least some of my meals are prepared at home, although the health benefits of home-cooking are undermined by the conflict between having the same meal three or four times in a week and the waste resulting from not using fresh ingredients before they are not longer fresh.  Of course some dishes can be made in 'serves four' mode and then frozen, and indeed I do this, but freezer capacity is limited, especially in a small flat.

So, when it comes to a traditional Christmas dinner, I very much appreciate the invitation to eat with others at this time of year.  It's something that is provided from time to time by churches as part of their service to the community.  Those with the ability - some of whom are themselves alone - join forces to use the church's kitchen facilities to benefit a broader gathering, with the cost partly borne by those attending who can afford it and the balance underwritten by the church.  Sometimes it has been my good fortune to attend such a meal; on other occasions a variety of church families have offered me a place at their table and I suppose that, one way or the other, I've dined alone at Christmas less than half of the time.

Christmas is a time for giving, of course.  Its whole purpose, after all, is the commemoration of the gift of a baby to be 'God with us' here on earth.  In human terms, presents - in their being bought, prepared, wrapped, given and received - represent an important part of the overall Christmas experience, and a not insignificant contribution to the economy!  This is particularly frustrating for me, partly from a lack of resources, and partly from a limit to the number of worthy recipients.

There is particular disappointment in going round the shops, seeing something really delightful and then having that enjoyment 'balloon' immediately popped by the pin of realising that there is no one in my life for whom to buy it.  I favour 'alternative' gifts, where a sum of money is given to a charity in return for a label announcing the purpose for which it will be spent, the label - in the form of a greetings card - then being sent or given to a friend or family member in lieu of a tangible present.

Often the solution to a problem brings with it another difficulty.  The domestic resolution to the matter of the festive meal means that the 'lonely one' is injected into a family atmosphere that isn't his own.  Family presents are exchanged. 'This one is from Aunt Harriet'; 'Here's one from cousin Peter' ... the excitement rises; then out of nowhere - or so it seems - 'and here's one for you'. A present is provided for the invited one; so that he should not feel left out, but at the same time a reminder of all that sets him apart.

Does this mean that I don't appreciate a meal in someone else's home?  Certainly not!  Such pleasures are most welcome; it's just that they're not the comprehensive solution to a problem for which such a solution probably doesn't exist.

Now that their own family commitments have been discharged, I'm spending a few days with my cousin and her husband.  Naturally the whole business of being away from home requires one to behave in ways of normality that are not part of one's solo domestic lifestyle.  One of the less expected of these manifested itself at the breakfast table.  My normal habit at home is to make my breakfast in the kitchen and then transport it to the table.  In my kitchen I butter my toast on the flat surface of the worktop; at the breakfast table I faced this task upon a plate, the raised rim of which hinders the even approach of knife blade to bread.

The experience brings bonuses as well.  I don't have to worry about food, and instead have the delight of communal wiping up.  I'm also planning a variety in worship this weekend.  Rather than attend a local church, I shall take a bus into Nottingham and, for the first time in many years attend a Quaker meeting.  For a couple of years in Norfolk, it was my habit to go the the village Church and the Meeting House alternately and the discipline of silence is a dimension of worship I miss.

For the present, the greatest 'problem' is knowing what day of the week it is.  I think we are all in need of a good strong Monday to sort us out ... is that one I see just around the corner?

Ready for Christmas?

It seems to be the question of the season this year.  More people than ever have asked me, "Are you ready for Christmas, then?"  My response is the non-committal, "As ready as I'll ever be."  It's a question that does demand some serious thought, however.  What does it mean to be 'ready for Christmas'?

Christmas, and consequentially to be ready for it, means different things to different people.  At one end of the spectrum is the religious festival, commemorating the arrival of a baby.  At the other is a sequence of gatherings and parties focused solely on enjoying the company of friends, eating and drinking as much as you feel comfortable with ... or perhaps a little more than that!

To be ready for a religious festival falls on the shoulders of a few who are organising it, although - in our church at least - that few tends to be quite a sizeable number, as more and more are willing to get involved.  But for the average attender, a little forethought is probably the only preparation required, so long as you can get to the venue on time.

At the other extreme, a great deal of organising is involved, laying in stocks of traditional food, nibbles and drinks, decorating the house, preparing games and amusements, maybe organising live music for a big party.  And this is all in addition to the writing and receiving of loads of Christmas cards, and the buying, wrapping and delivering of all kinds of presents, graded in size and value according to the closeness of the relationship to the recipient.

I was ready for my own marking of the season some weeks ago.  Cards were bought, written and stacked up for posting, a few simple gifts prepared and wrapped, and some 'alternative gifts' arranged.  That's not to say that there aren't one or two 'extra' food items, but as one who has neither room nor aptitude to entertain in any meaningful way, these are necessarily few.  For me one of the greatest excitements is the arrival of cards, and the messages - some long, some short and concise - that they bring.

One evening this week, I had a phone call from the God-daughter of a second cousin, who had been passed, for the second year running, my card and newsletter that had been sent to him.  In a wave of overwhelming embarrassment and guilt, she realised that she'd never got around to phoning me last year to tell me that he'd died two Christmases ago!  After reassuring her that she shouldn't worry about that, that these things happen, and so on, I began to look at my card list and noting the absence of cards from one or two other elderly people, wondering whether they, too, might have fallen off the twig of life during the past twelve months.

As I noted last week, many friendships and relationships like this are only updated once a year in this way.  It's a worthwhile exercise to look through the cards before recycling them, to reflect on the notes that have come with them.  One chap who, so far as I knew had remained unmarried for fifty years, had this year added to his greeting, '... and family'.  Another card enclosed the usual single sheet listing all the children, grandchildren and now great-grandchildren, out of which I think I recognised just one name.  Another, which doesn't usually enclose a letter, brought news of a son who had taken his young family off to Australia following up a job offer.  The job didn't work out, and he's now looking for work there.

There comes a point - perhaps midway through the following week - when the parties are over, the energy completely sapped and the larder empty and you begin to ask, "Was it all worth it?"  Unless something really exciting or really terrible has happened, this is another question that's difficult to answer, until that date in January when all the bills have to be paid, and you realise that it was definitely not worth it, and wonder why you bothered!

One reason that most people bother was expressed in a familiar saying I overheard in the supermarket the other day, "It's all about the children, isn't it?"  In a way, that's true, of course.  It's all about that baby in a manger in Bethlehem 2,000 years ago.  But He didn't come just for children: He came as a child, but for us all.  In the sense in which I heard that remark, I have to agree, though.  The sense of awe and excitement that only children seem to be able freely to express certainly evaporates once they've grown up. 

In times past Christmas Day was only the start of a celebration that would go on until Twelfth Night.  The Yule log - in some houses a whole tree-trunk - would be burned from one end, and pushed further into the grate as the days passed, while the celebrations continued.  The modern Christmas razzmatazz, however, stops abruptly with, or even before, the new year, as commerce moves on. 

Today's focus is on the build up to one big day; the whole season of Advent, which puts Christmas into perspective, is squeezed out.  Without this background that gives Christmas its purpose, modern man is lost for a motive for his celebration.  Without that motive, it's little wonder that the celebration falls flat on its face once the food is eaten and the booze is gone; little wonder that we ask 'was it all worth it?'

So, with a sincerity that only some will recognise, I wish all of my readers a truly Blessed Christmas.

Legs and Letters ... Children and Christmas Cards!

I never cease to be amazed at the way the things in my life seem to fall into appropriate chains.  As longer-term readers of this blog will recall, this was often the case with my work.  For example, I might go for six months without visiting a particular customer or town and then, in the space of a couple of weeks I would go there two or three times in quick succession.  It's not a repetition exactly that I'm writing about ... although thinking about it, I suppose in a way it is ... but read on and you can decide for yourself.

Most of my friends seem to receive Christmas cards in a steady stream from the last days of November onward.  I usually get my first one about that time and after then just one now and again.  Occasionally two or three will arrive on the same day, but that's the exception rather than the rule.  The other day there were three, and I realised that they were representative of three distinct segments of my life.  One was from a cousin whose parents used always to send me a card ... one of those situations where the annual exchange of cards is the only-ever correspondence between us.  When the second parent died a couple of years ago, their daughter inherited the mantle, so to speak, and the first card of the three was from her and her husband.

The second card came from a couple whom I have known for ages, one from childhood, the other since my teenage.  Jean was my first wife's best friend at school, and visited us regularly in our first home.  This was a two-roomed flat, and I recall that we had the fridge in the living room because the kitchenette was so small.  Suddenly during one of Jean's visits, the fridge made a noise - as fridges do - and she turned round in surprise.  We, of course had grown used to it and scarcely noticed this at all.  Jean's husband was an art teacher at the local school, and I attended an evening class that he ran.

Many years later, I went for a holiday to Durham University, for a study week that was part of a scheme called 'Summer Academy'.  It was an organisation that enabled universities to benefit from their facilities during the academic holidays; it ceased about fifteen years ago as a result of the changing pattern of people's lives.  I attended a course on Medieval Monks and Monasteries, which ran in parallel with another on Thomas Hardy and his novels.  The two groups shared the college accommodation and also joined together for social activities and as a result I made friends with Sheila, a divorced lady some twelve years my senior, with whom I have remained in contact ever since.

It was she and her husband (now married almost 13 years, although it seems much more recent!) who had sent me that morning's third card.  When I first knew her I used to pay visits two or three times a year, including one Christmas when her son and daughter-in-law were visiting.  The daughter-in-law was at the time expecting their first child and the girl I first encountered as 'a bump' has now landed a job working for London's Globe Theatre!

Earlier this week, I braved the remains of the weekend's snow to fulfil a promise made some months ago to provide my friend with a lift to our bell-ringers' annual dinner, in preference to hiring a taxi for the occasion.  As we walked gingerly across the car park amidst the frozen wheel-tracks, I extended my arm, saying light-heartedly, "Here, put your leg into bed!"

It was a saying she hadn't heard before, and I readily admit it's one I've heard only once, but it had stuck in my mind with some amusement for over twenty years!  It was on one of those early visits to Sheila.  I was staying with her for the weekend, and on the Saturday afternoon we walked from her home into the town.  All of a sudden, I felt her arm slide into mine along with the words, "You don't mind if I put my leg into bed, do you?"  Although somewhat taken aback, I was content with the warm welcome that the gesture implied.

I also recall, with some embarrassment, an occasion - on that visit or some other - when we went to church together on the Sunday morning.  An acquaintance approached and said, "Hello, Sheila, I haven't seen you for some time," she looked at me and continued, "is this your eldest?"  I cringed, not sure whether it was a compliment to me or a slight against my friend, and I can't recall how the exchange concluded.  Perhaps that's as well!

Under the Skin

I'm not heavily into getting inside someone else's body ... it's too much like that ultra-modern crime that's been around for decades - if not centuries - 'inappropriate touching'!  But let's start with a quotation:

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view ... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it." - Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

These words came to me this week in a missionary magazine.  The context in which they were quoted was the twin concepts of Jesus being born a baby to share what a human life is like, and radio staff getting out into the communities to which they are broadcasting, in order to make their programmes truly relevant to their listeners.  As I read them, however, two strands in my own life in recent weeks came quickly to mind and I decided that they should form the substance of this week's blog.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about a close friend who was hospitalised, looking after her baby son who was ill.  That blog was based solely on what I had learned from text messages sent from the bedside.  The details were essentially factual, what treatment he was receiving, how he had responded, and so on.  Although there was other information too, a mere text message conversation, perhaps 500 words spread over the day, couldn't convey the atmosphere, the feelings, the frustrations, the minute-by-minute life there.

The day after I'd written that post, I was able to visit them for a couple of hours.  The conversation and the experience of being there conveyed so much more to me than a month of text messages ever could.  There is so much more to conversation, for example, than the spoken word, so much more to 'regular observations' than mere figures written on a chart.  I realised, too, how difficult it is to summarise the daily food intake of a sick little boy, who had had a bite of this and a small chunk of that, some of which had been spat out again.  I was also able to appreciate some of the privations of being his full-time carer on the ward!

The images I gained that afternoon shaped my thoughts and prayers for the next few days, until they came home during the following week ... and since then, too, as my concern continues that he will stay healthy now life has returned to something like normal.

The other real-life parallel concerns another recent post here, when I reported having found two great-great-uncles on the 1861 census, apparently homeless.  This discovery coincided with my decision to get involved in a project to help some of the homeless or otherwise vulnerable people of our town.  Last week saw my second visit to an 'active' session of the campaign.  It has begun, as was planned, in a very low-key manner, so that it can grow organically as word of it gets around and as the specific needs of those attending become known.

At a personal level (as I have mentioned here) I was apprehensive of getting involved, but at the same time convinced that it is something that I need to support.  The experience of my two visits so far has been of dispelling my lack of confidence.  For the most part it has involved being of help to, and having conversations with, my fellow-volunteers.  Last week, after packing up, we shared an informal chat with one of the Salvationist leaders.  She could speak as one with experience of this kind of work, and explained that the success of the enterprise was not in what we might say, but in the fact of our being there, willing to listen to what these unfortunate people had to say to us.

It's not until we have understood something of the detail of these people's lives over and above the bald statement 'we have no home', that we shall be able to help them.  And how true that is of all segments of life in a community.  The secret is in putting ourselves out so that we can truly get to know other people, whether that is simply by listening, or by sharing in the life they are living, for however short a while.

Found by the Back Door!

It's impossible to know how far our ancestors travelled in their lives, and how far their knowledge extended.  I have friends who are probably more familiar with Barcelona or Majorca than with Birmingham or Manchester, Bridgnorth or Motherwell or any other place you care to mention in the UK, and I have no doubt that knowledge and familiarity in past ages would have varied from person to person just as it does today.  I particular, I wonder whether some of our Victorian ancestors knew who they were related to!

One thing that has fascinated me since I discovered that my future wife was already related to my cousin's cousin (that's well over forty years ago!), is the existence of what I call 'back-door links'.  In other words, the fact that, for two people - typically living, or having families, in rural communities - who aren't even distant cousins - i.e. don't have a common ancestor - through a marriage or sequence of marriages there is a chain of people who link them together.

The cousin whom I've referred to above is my cousin because our mothers were sisters.  That link to my fiancée was through her father's family, so there was no blood relationship.  Earlier this year, as I was researching, and later following up, the twin family trees that I presented to my cousin as a golden wedding present, I tripped over not one but two more such links.

The first of these linked my cousin and me to her husband, John, through the family of our mothers' maternal grandfather.  His great-aunt (we're now back to the early nineteenth century!) married a man called James Pawsey.  John's side of this link is through his maternal grandmother.  Her grandfather's niece married the nephew of James Pawsey.  The link is therefore based on two marriages and a totally independent third family.  In conventional terms, there is no relationship at all, which is why I call this phenomenon a 'link'.

The second such link that I found this year is between John and myself, this time through my father's family.  Dad's paternal grandmother had a first cousin (the son of her mother's brother) named James Bootman.  John is linked once again through his maternal grandmother.  Her uncle married James Bootman's daughter.  This link hinges on just the one marriage, and this time there is no other family involved, but we are still not directly related to each other.

The existence of such links is perhaps not so rare as one might suppose.  Only a few weeks ago I discovered, through a 'memories' website, a second cousin (i.e. granddaughter of one of our grandfather's brothers) who is now living in Australia.  Like us, her descent from this family is through her mother.  However, when I discovered her maiden surname - not a common one - my imagination went into overdrive, and I began making some investigations.

That name, Munford, was the same as that of a family who are linked to ours (i.e. to my cousin and me) by marriage only.  We knew of them because of two elderly cousins of our grandmother who used to visit regularly when we were children.  Their link to us was through the marriage of our great-grandmother's sister, Susan Brickham.  Our newly-discovered second cousin's great-grandfather (her father's grandfather) was a brother of the husband of Susan Brickham.  Amazingly, her father had chosen as his wife a first cousin of our mothers.

You may have switched off after the first paragraph, and decided to wait for next week's blog ... which I assure you will be different!  If, on the other hand, you've persevered this far - with or without pencil and paper - you may be wondering about your own family!  If you have any interesting examples of links like this, do share them through the comments facility below.

Jagged Edges

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!

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. 

The Kohima Memorial

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.