Memories of a very young boy

MEMORIES

INTRODUCTION

A short time ago I went to a friend's funeral.  Several people spoke, and told us about things that they could remember happening to him.  He was an interesting man who was lucid to the end, and I wondered exactly what his thoughts had been, and what had made him tick.

But this story is not about him.  I realised that in all of us there are myriads of brain cells that record not necessarily the absolute truth, but our perception of all that has happened through our lives.  When one dies, and the brain cells deteriorate into nothingness, a huge amount of ephemeral personal memories are lost for ever.  The history of a person is a matter of record, but the thoughts and memories of a person are individual, and they die when their brains die. 

I resolved then and there that I should put down on paper some of my memories.  I probably won't finish the task, indeed I suspect it would be boring if I did, but at some future time when I have my Death Certificate, someone may look through my personal detritus, and discover what memories I had.  Necessarily they will be incomplete, they will be biased, but they will be ephemera, true ephemera, my ephemera.

 

FIRST MEMORIES

Light, dappled light and a feeling of happiness.  Nothing more.   I later learned that the light was sunlight shining through the fringe of my sunshade.  Back in the summer of 1946 there were no strollers, just prams, usually black prams, and in summer, the black hoods were lowered, and cream or white fabric sunshades were substituted, and sunlight shining through their fringes had caused the dappled light.

I remember, I think, being changed.  Being dried off, the lovely silky feel of powder being applied, and a clean towelling nappy pinned on me.  (My mother saved my nappy safety pins.  I don't know why, but I still have them).  I have no more than a feeling that I was left in my pram next to the wash house on sunny days.  I was out of the house, but safe in the small back yard.  Memories were more phases of consciousness of my surroundings which came and went, and for most of the time weren't there at all.  I can't remember anything of the following year even though the town had record breaking floods, but I do remember one of my mother's dresses.  It was dark green.

I remember my cot, I think, but I definitely remember the milk truck coming to collect our belongings.  Then all is blank, except for a ten second segment when I was between the driver and my Dad in the cab of the lorry, and we were at the top of a road which went down a hill, Queens Road.  The rest has gone, except that later, when I could read, the newspaper under the linoleum near the front door was dated May 1948.  I had been just over two when we moved to 68 Queens Road.

 

MUM and DAD TAKE ME CAMPING.

Dad had a second hand car, a Ford, and it was green with black wings over the wheels.  One day we went to Gloucester, near the centre of the city.  The next thing (several hours later), Dad erected a tent in the back garden.

A couple of days later, Mum, Dad and I put lots of stuff into the car boot, and by the side of Mum who sat in the back seat, was the tent.  I was two, and this holiday was the first time I can remember.  I sat in the front seat because I got travel sick.

We stopped off on the way at Ashbourne, and headed for Buxton, Dad's home town.  Eventually we crossed over a railway line and turned right into a triangular field.  Mum and Dad pitched the tent in the rain, put in the wooden camp beds, and some blankets in between for me to sleep on.  Meanwhile, I ran about in the rain soaked grass kicking as many raindrops as possible off the grass leaves, and noticing that the grass was slightly darker where I ran, which meant that I could make patterns all over the field.

The only noises I remember hearing were cars, trains, and the stove.  Otherwise the field was silent.  I noticed the cars, because you could hear them about every five minutes – there was far less motor traffic than there is today- and at much larger intervals, there was a puff puff PUFF puff and white steam billowing as a train went under the road bridge, and then again under another bridge which led from the field.  The primus stove had to be prepared properly and kept away from anything dangerous, so it was put into a large metal biscuit tin where it hissed.  The hissing was an invitation to a mug of tea during the day, or else a small meal which was given to me on an enamel plate.  In the evening I was given a small can of Heinz soup, and put to bed.  I slept soundly, and next morning I was soon running round the field again.  Eventually my Mum and Dad came out of the tent.  Dad had a large green canvas bucket.  It was for water, and so off we went over the bridge to the farm.  I remember going to the farm because the railway bridge was covered in grass.  It was the first time I had ever been on a farm and it seemed so muddy.  The bucket was so heavy that I could not lift it at all, no matter how hard I tried.  So father brought it back to the tent.  It was raining.

We went to see Dad's brothers Ernie and Henry.  Uncle Henry lived in a large stone house near a railway viaduct, and Ernie lived on a hilly part of town where there were swings in a playground.  And it rained.  The next day, it rained.

The following day we packed up the tent, put it in the car and set off for Windgather.  Here there was a Youth Hostel for the rock climbers.  Miss Booth welcomed us.  I can't remember her at all except that she seemed old, but I remember only the name.  She was helped by Marjorie, who I also can't remember.  All I remember about Windgather was that it wasn't as warm and cosy as the tent.  And still it rained.  I suppose at some stage it must have stopped and the sun came out, because we went to the Pavilion Gardens in Buxton.  I had a blue and white beachball.  Beach balls were usually made from rubber, and they had to be inflated to full basketball size.  A button was removed from a tube, Dad blew down the tube making a satisfactory breathy whistling sound.  The button was placed in the tube, and then the whole thing was pushed down until it was flat with the rest of the ball.  The sun stayed out and it must have become reasonably warm.

I should say here that I was mad on railways, which I have been all my life.  Mum and I used to meet my Uncle John at the station.  If the locomotive let off steam, I would inevitably cry.

We went into the tea room.  A boy, maybe a year older than me, had a railway book, and on the back cover was an express train rushing into a tunnel.  Uncharacteristically I threw a tantrum; I cried; I wailed; I tried to take the book from the older boy.  I was given a gentle smack and told that the book was not mine.  I gave the book back, stopped crying and hoped that Mum and Dad would get me the book and post it off to Father Christmas so that he could bring it to me on Christmas Day.  I think Father Christmas was very busy and it slipped his mind.

The things we do to take some snaps

I'm a very lucky person, I know, but I sometimes have a holiday, and when I do I like it to be an adventure.  I'm an adventurer, a traveller, but not a tourist.  I don't particularly like tourists, my problem with them is that they are always where I want to go, and usually they manage to ddo it cheaper.

For instance I usually look on the map and decide where I want to go to first.  This is almost inevitably a visit to a site of National or International Importance.  I get there, I'm jostled, shoulder to shoulder with trippers.  Oh grief, that  sounds so snobbish.  What I mean to say is that there a lot of people who have holidays, have a limited time to have them before getting back to work, so they go on a coach tour or similar to see the sights.  I did it once.  Five countries in nine days.  Privately I hated it, but officially I loved it because it first introduced me to Margaret, the redoubtable Mrs S., who has now been my "other half" for more than forty-one years.

Anyway, I decide where I want to go, get sniffy, (is it surprising when at Versailles I once saw a Japanese man wearing a suit with gold stripes.  Close examination of the gold stripes showed that they were formed by a repeating sequence of letters.  The sequence was ENTAXASAHIPENTAXASAHIP, which puzzled me as much then as much as it puzzles me now.  A whole suit with stripes of gold letters).  So as I say, after I've seen this amazing building or whatever, I just wander the streets and watch the locals come and go.  Sometimes I attempt to chat to them, then I'll find a local eatery, have another walk in the afternoon and go back to the hotel, look at my map, and find I've missed a world heritage sight by a single block.  And I am seldom disappointed about that.

I am the man who has been to Paris but not been up the Eiffel Tower; Rome without touring the Coliseum, Venice, without going round St Mark's Cathedral; Barcelona without seeing La Sagrada Familia; and Florence without going to the Uffizi.  I am 71 in a few days, and I have to realise that my chances of "doing Europe" many more times are rapidly decreasing.  In fact this could be conceivably my last time to visit family, friends and places that I have known since childhood.

So I've planned my itinerary to see parts of Europe which I either love, or think I'll love.  In 2012 I went round many of Italy's gardens.  This time I'm heading for the art galleries and concert halls.  And I'm travelling by train to places that in some cases I couldn't go to, like Berlin and Prague.

I'm setting off by the Red Arrow from Rome to Florence, and by the Silver Arrow to Venice.  Then I'm travelling by one of the last night trains that used to criss-cross Europe, by catching the 9pm Venice to Vienna via Salzburg train, although I shall hopefully be fast asleep when we reach there at 3.30 in the morning.  (I went to Salzburg about ten years ago, and refused to visit anything to do with Mozart, although I accidentally went to the Nonne Nunnery where Julie Andrews was a novice.

From Vienna I clickety click to Prague and from there I clickety clack to Berlin, before taking the high speed train to Hamburg, which is one of the most wonderful destinations which noone knows about.  Then on to Amsterdam to smell the smoke, and Paris on the Thalys, a train which only takes just over three hours for the entire journey!  Lastly, after reliving some memories in Paris, it will be off to London by Eurostar, and start the tour of relations and friends.  At last, totally exhausted, I come home to Sydney, the best destination of them all.

Meanwhile, if I'm going to chat to the locals, I'm going to have to brush up my Italian, start from scratch with Czech (how hard  can a language be with five accents?), German, Dutch and French.

So from me it's Ciao, Chus, Ahoy, Chus, ?, and au'voir

John

A bit of Old Berowra

A Bit of Old Berowra

This was originally made in 2005 (twelve years ago!) to show English friends where we lived, and what it was like.  (Sorry about the quality!)

As it happened, a small part of the village's history was recorded for posterity, albeit with a crap commentary and shaky pictures.  I hope the old format will still work on modern phones and computers.  The pace of Technology is such that there are no guarantees.  If it doesn't work, well that would be a shame

Hopefully this will bring back a few memories!

Not 'appy, John! It was all your Volt!

Dear Diary,

Would you please tell your writer (me) to check ALL his equipment (photographic) so that he has some piccies to put on his blog?

Today I went down to the Rocks, the old colonial part of Sydney, to take a few snaps.  I took a few pics of office blocks, then near Cadmans Cottage I decided to take another snap of the Sydney Opera House across the waters of Circular Quay.  What I got was yet another "office block, hotel, or block of flats" masquerading as a ship called the "Something of the Seas".

But most of all, I saw a rare sight today.  A genuine swaggie, a swagman with a real swag on his back, foraging for food in litter bins, and checking that no spare cash had been rejected by the parking machines.  It was weirdly like watching a bee flitting from flower to flower in search of the odd bit of pollen.  I was amazed at how methodical he was and what economy of action he had.  His swag was a life's lesson on how little we really need to go through life.

I lifted my camera, and up came a sign "Battery empty, replace battery" in my camera viewfinder.
So I went to my bag and found .  .  . nothing.  The two spare batteries that I ALWAYS keep in there have escaped.  When I find them I'll put them on a charge.  That's when I find them!  They are AWOL at the moment somewhere under the detritus I call home.  If necessary I'll send in the dogs (I know you can get battery hens, but can you get battery hounds?)

Meanwhile, my arrangements for "Sidebotham - The Final European Tour" go on apace.  The accommodation is booked, as are the flights and the trains.  I know which artgals and museums I want to see; and now I'm working on the Evening stuff.  I like Opera, but it's off season, and I can only find one at the moment.  The Opera Bastille in Paris is doing Rigoletto.  When I was in Paris in 2000 I went to the Opera Bastille and saw . . . yup! . . . Rigoletto, sung in Italian with French surtitles.  Perhaps this time it will be performed by a tribute boy band, sung in Icelandic with Farsi surtitles.  That would be different!

Meanwhile (again), I'm brushing up on my languages.  I'm not paranoid, but I like to know what they are really saying about me.

No probs with French - did that badly at school

No probs with German.  Never did that at school.  Total experience, one month staying with an English speaking German family in Hamburg in 1963

No probs with Italian.  Not done in school but spoke Italian like it was never spoken before for a week and a half five years ago.  I kept sliding into the very similar Spanish, so much so, that I would start the struggle with some Italian and find myself in Spanish by the end of the sentence.  I became known as the old Spaniard with a very little Italian.  (And don't be rude!)

No probs with Dutch.  It's garbled German, I don't speak any, and they all speak English anyway.

Czech has five ACCENTS apparently, some of which have never before been seen by Civilised Man.
I'm going to be blank and dud at Czech.

Now trovare gli pili . . . spero subito.

That surprised you?

That surprised me!

The Return of the Native

I'm back!

My wife says that because I'm an Aries, I start things but never get round to finishing them.  I think I'm a lazy bast. . . (I'm already feeling tired)

Anyway . . . I can't remember now why I was trawling in this part of the Inter (done that joke) net, but I happened upon my blog, which was still lying in wait there for me, not having been written since 2014.  Where has the time gone?

Well, I don't know.

But I'm still going round with the wrong crowd, I still have a camera, and I am getting more and more interested in what I call Art Photography.

Actually it's partly my age.  There was a time when I'd produce pin sharp landscapes, but these days, as I spill more and more of my beer, my creative juices more and more consist of taking photos from years ago and tremble away to try and make something new from dross of the past.

For example, here is a Flannel Flower which I've blurred slightly to hide the unintentional shake, and hopefully make an interesting picture.

As you can see, it is very similar to the Edelweiss from the Alps.  Edelweiss is German for "white star", so I experimented with the stars of the Southern Cross (Crux australis)

It's a crap experiment, but at least it's astronomically correct.

We had a guy come to our Camera Club last year who gave me some marvellous ideas for using up really awful record shots like this.  It was a daylight photo of some eucalypts growing by the side of the road.  I'm too ashamed to show you the "before".  I'm almost too embarrassed to show you the "after"

But by now I had the bit between my teeth, and I decided to imitate some of the great artists.  This one was quite difficult to do.  I call it "Salvador Dalia"

And then, this evening, I played around with a picture of an office block.  I call it "Working Late Again" and here it is, as Art Deco as you could wish for.

Well, that's it folks, for the first day back.  Hopefully there will be more similar stuff in this blog later on.  Let me know, either here or on FB what you think of them.

Cheers for now, John.