Friday 16 January 2015

THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY...


Me on my family estate (he lied, shamelessly) around 1988 or '89

As we grow up and pass through the various, inevitable 'chapters' of our lives - like infancy, childhood, teenage years, young adulthood, etc., - we do so unself-consciously, without realizing at the time that we're exiting one stage and entering another.  It's only when we look back, many years later, that we come to recognize that certain phases of our lives (depending on individual circumstances, naturally) each fall into their own separate and distinct 'compartments'.  (Or, at least, that's how it seems in retrospect.)

That's probably a bit vague and ambiguous, so let me attempt to clarify what I'm trying to convey.  One of my fondest childhood memories is sneaking downstairs with my brother in the wee, small hours of a Christmas morning to unwrap our presents, as our parents snored away in blissful ignorance of what we were up to. Another is going out on Hallowe'en and chapping neighbourhood doors in the company of three or four others, and reciting a verse or three in exchange for monkey nuts, some apples and oranges. 

Sliding down slippery slopes on sledges my father had built was another boyhood joy, with the spray from the snow splattering our faces with its exhilarating tingle as we raced recklessly downhill with seemingly suicidal intent.  I christened my sledge 'Fireball XL5' and still had it right up until my early twenties, when it mysteriously disappeared before I had a chance to protest.  My father probably used the wood for something, or it was thrown away in the early '80s when I wasn't looking.

A very poor, out-of-focus photo of me around 1977/'78.  That's
my sledge leaning against our dog Tara's kennel on my left

It occurs to me that one of the worst cruelties parents can inflict on their children is to decide, in their absence and without consultation, to dispose of their childhood treasures on the grounds that they're 'too old' for them and don't need them anymore.  (Many a lifelong obsession has resulted from such thoughtless parental behaviour, I'm sure.)

If you're an adult who yet lives in your childhood home, perhaps happy halcyon days don't seem so very far away, and, if so, you're in an extremely enviable position.  I first moved into my present habitation aged around 13-and-a-half when the immediate past seemed far closer than it does now.  However, these days, I often find it a source of great disappointment that fondly-recalled moments associated with childhood belong to previous houses rather than my current abode.

It never seemed to matter much before, but as I get older, my past appears even further removed from me, and it galls me that I never got to sneak downstairs at Christmas in this house, or went sledging down the hill in the nearby park in winter, or guising 'round the neighbours' houses at Hallowe'en.  These things all happened elsewhere.

The house with the dark front door is the one I lived in when
my sledge was built.  Photo taken around 2009 or 2010

Last year, at Christmas, I revisited the area I used to live in from about one-and-a-half years old until I was six, going on seven.  It's only about 25 minutes away on foot, which might not sound like any kind of a journey, but the 'reality' of travelling 46 years into the past is an immense distance in anyone's book.  It was between seven or eight o'clock at night and some local teenagers (about 17 years old, I'd guess) were sledging down the very hill that I had done all those years before.  I was with a friend, so not having to worry about being mistaken for some lone, sinister stranger, I hailed them and asked if I could have a shot on one of their sleds.

I explained my connection to the area and they were entirely agreeable, no doubt hoping to witness this old duffer come a cropper on the slopes.  It was one of those modern plastic sleds, red in colour (my favourite), so the blood wouldn't show if I happened to injure myself.  What an experience!  It was great to relive a moment in the same place as nearly 50 years previously, and I'm glad I did so before the local council decide to sell the land for houses or whatever.

But I digress.  As my very existence ticks faster and faster away, what once seemed like one cohesive 'whole' now seems fragmented and scattered to the far corners.  I refer to the various aspects that make up my life of course.  Sometimes, I look at my comics and toys from childhood and am suddenly beset by a feeling that they belong elsewhere, and seem curiously out of place.  One item recalls one house to memory, another summons forth recollections of a different one.  Mostly, such mementos afford me a great deal of comfort and pleasure, but, occasionally, can also cast a pall of sorrow over my ruminations.

A similar occasion to the one described, but in a different place around
20-odd years earlier, in 1989 or '90.  (Same colour of sled though)

As I've no doubt ruefully reflected before in my melancholy musings, it sometimes seems like the 'spirit of youth', which once beat so strongly within me, slipped off somewhere to die when I wasn't looking, leaving me tired and empty, a mere husk of my former self.  All that remains is a dim and distant echo that yet reverberates in the vast caverns of memory, but even echoes eventually die.  The ghost of my childhood now resides in former homes, having fled this current one.  It deigns to visit me on occasion however, so I must be thankful for small mercies.

Usually, surrounding oneself with familiar objects from the past helps perpetuate the notion that it's not so very far away after all; that, in fact, there is no past, present or future - only one big 'now'.  However, the mind is a fickle mistress, and sometimes delights in torturing us with a 'reality' far different to the one we'd prefer.  On that mournful note, I'd be interested in reading the opinions and perceptions of my 'fellow Mellows'.  Is the past, to you, not only a foreign country, but also a forgotten one?  Or like me, do you constantly endeavour to keep it in view, reluctant, like MOLE in Kenneth Grahame's The WIND In The WILLOWS, to completely abandon the old life for the new?

Well, I'm not sure whether any of the above screed is as clear as I'd have liked, but, if you can understand what I was trying to say, feel free to analyze, soliloquize, theorize, rationalize - or even agonize - about it in the comments section.

My faithful dog, Zara, three quarters of the way down the actual hill
I sledged on as a child - and once as an adult.  Taken around 1996

Click on photos to enlarge.  In the case of photo #3, clicking again will  enlarge even further.  (In case you want to look through the windows.)

4 comments:

  1. What you said about parents throwing your things away - you have no idea how painful it was for me when I came home from school one day to find a load of my comics missing from my huge cardboard box for the first ( and only! ) time! My mother told me she had thrown them away, because " you are ”supposed to throw them away". I wouldn't have minded as much if she had consulted me first about it and we could have gone through them together and I could have discarded some that I wasn't so bothered about, but instead she had indiscriminately grabbed a whole bunch off the top, including fairly newish ones and callously sent them to oblivion, like a wicked witch in a Disney film!
    After this incident I learnt all manner of hiding places to safeguard my most treasured editions from falling into her grasp again!
    Memories of sledging - amongst my presents for Christmas '62 was a toy woodwork tool set and a beautiful wooden sledge with steel runners (from my Uncle Bill, who used to buy me all those comics). I don't know how I achieved this as a child, perhaps by scrounging a but, bolt & washers from my Grandad's shed, but using that toy woodwork kit, I was able to fashion a hand brake, which I attached to the left-hand side of the sledge, by drilling through it with a crude hand drill. Then followed the big freeze of early '63 and, as I lived at the top of a big, long hill, I was in the perfect place at just the right moment in time! It was marvelous and furthermore that brake actually worked, because there was a road at the bottom of the hill and it would stop you by digging into the snow and the sledge would spin round sideways.
    You can't call those red plastic things proper sledges!
    I used to have the "Rolls Royce" of sledges!
    HAPPY NEW BLOG, Kidda!

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  2. Thanks, JP. I would've sledged down the hill you see in the photo in '63 also. In fact, that would've been the last time I did so in the house in which I lived at the time. However, my new house was only a few minutes away, and I remember sledging down it again in '64. Then we moved to a completely new neighbourhood in '65, and a new hill (not quite as big or as steep) became our new sledge-track. Happy days. Did you ever manage to replace any of those comics over the years, perchance?

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    Replies
    1. Nope, never, I think the ones I would love the most would would be the Beezer's with the Jellymen in .I've got Phil(comics) on the look out if any crop up, but you know the ridiculous prices those DC This comics go for at auction!
      Strange to think that back in '63 we were both sledging down hills at the same time and then, as we got a little older both buying TV21's and Power comics, etc. And we weren't the only 2 either!!

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    2. Must've been at least thousands of them, but I wonder how many of them look back like we do with such affection for the things that made up their lives at the time?

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