Doesn't Time Fly When You're Having Fun.

    Three of our grandchildren stayed overnight last week; Ted, four, Tommy, nine and Angelina, twelve. We took them to my home village of Ockbrook. I thought they ought to know a little concerning my own dodgy background and upbringing. ( see 'A childhood Revisited' at the beginning of my blog.)

    Unfortunately the weather excelled itself. We all got out of the car near the Moravian chapel I attended for all of my youth. Within twenty seconds of us alighting there lightning flashed ominously, lighting up the sky, followed immediately by  horrendous claps of thunder. (We were taught as children that each second between lightning and thunder is one mile distance between the two. indicating how far away is the storm. Were we taught correctly?) The children were alarmed, Angelina particularly so. 'God's not amused  by the infrequency of my visits to his house' I mused as we all dived back in the car. Our visit to my childhood pastures had lasted all of one minute!

The children enjoyed their weekend with granddad and grandma. (They live approximately one hundred yards away!) Paulette produced Snakes and Ladders and Cluedo, the former much appreciated particularly by Ted. But I noticed their own choice of entertainment consisted in the main (when the various televisions in our house are switched off) of various hand held devices with bright lit screens. I don't pretend to know 'what it's all about, Alfie', but by goodness it keeps them quiet! There are good and bad points to such obviously addictive electronic amusement but I couldn't help thinking back to my own childhood.

    Much of my childhood was spent outdoors. On farms amid animals and machinery. Or near the railway lines that ran through the next village. In summer learning to swim in the putrid water of the Erewash Canal; or the tempting but highly dangerous currents of the River Derwent. Indoors enjoying the delights of Subbuteo or printing rude words with the aid of a John Bull printing set. 

    The fifties were extremely unsophisticated times, certainly if compared to what's on offer to the young of the westernised world in the present century. So much has changed; so much is different today. 

    I happened recently to see an Eagle Annual that featured the best of the 1950's comic. The Eagle comic first surfaced on the 14th April, 1950, priced three pence, later rising to four and a half pence. (old money before decimalization. double the price of most other comics.) The Eagle was a comic that in many ways was  before its time.  Much of it in colour, it was innovative in so many ways. It brought inventions and technology into the lives of children. It pushed the grimness of the recently fought war into the background. It was exciting, and it brought its readers new heroes: Dan Dare, PC49 and Harris Tweed. No wonder at its peak it sold over one million copies per week. as a young teenage boy (born 1939) I loved it all. Happy days, yet looking at some pages today, I marvel as to how things, particularly language has changed since my youth.In the Eagle comics of the fifties there are frequent mention of 'chums, chaps and fellows'. There is a quaintness about the time. A 'criminal' in PC49 exclaims, ''Lumee, its a fair cop" when arrested. There is talk of 'grub' and 'yippee' is a frequent exclamation. A young reader writes in all innocence to say he lives in a 'queer' place! (In Eagle's early days its badge for a readers outstanding 'courage and service' was called a MUGS badge! (Later changed to a Silver Eagle Badge.) The stated aim of the Hulton Press, proprietors of the Eagle, was to create a comic that, unlike American counterparts, was both 'wholesome and decent'. Times have changed and I have no doubt many will say 'not for the better'. I honestly don't know, you tell me! 

    Two little 'foods for thought'. Near to my home in one particular place in Derby was a shoe shop called 'Gay Shoes ' Why did it change its name to Alvaston Shoes I wonder. And during my youth a boxer by the name of Randy Turpin was my hero. Presumably Randy was a nickname. I wonder if 'Randy' would raise the eyebrows most then or now. I wonder, I truly do!        

Again and Again and Again.

I seldom plan ahead concerning the writing of posts. Not surprising in view of the fact that I'm not even sure as to why I blog. On a good day, a fairly easy task, on a bad day a blank canvas awaiting my limited efforts. Are you the same, dear friends. I've never particularly been one for topicality or the 'world scene', others do it better. Then, occasionally, something in the news catches my eye and off we go.

The Tibetan people are having it rough, rougher than normal at the hands of their Chinese oppressors, particularly in the Sichuan districts. (16 Tibetans have set fire to themselves since March of last year.) The Chinese Government of course deny any brutality in Tibet, or anywhere else for that matter. Truth is just as easy to suppress as people. Which suggests a 'deja vu' post yet again.

In the 1950's I was a wide-eyed schoolboy growing up in a village in Derbyshire. I was brought up in a Moravian household purely and simply because there happened to be a Moravian congregation where I lived. (A very old Protestant religion, similar to Methodists, established in Ockbrook in 1750.)

The Moravian Church happens to be a missionary church, so treats for us children would be visiting missionaries from far away places on 'furlow', speaking in the chapel concerning their important work delivering the word of God' to 'ignorant savages overseas'. (I did have a cousin who became a missionary but it had no appeal for me. Though I was fascinated by pictures of Eskimo children sucking seals eyes in the same way as we village boys sucked our gobstoppers.)

One day there appeared in church a small robed man, playing a musical instrument and singing/chanting; way beyond a village boys comprehension or experience. Evidently he was Tibetan, a Buddist converted to the Christian faith by Moravian missionaries. (Shortly to be expelled from Tibet by, you've guessed it,  the Chinese rulers in Tibet. All this in the 1950's, not 2012.)

The Moravians in Ockbrook arranged for a Derby engineering firm to make a typewriter that typed in the Tibetan language. Brilliant, They couldn't have been too many of them around! Then the little man returned to Tibet to a life full of danger and uncertainty, for his life had already been threatened because of his conversion to Christianity; he was a brave little man indeed and I salute him.

Over fifty years on the Chinese militia are still brutally suppressing the indigenous people of Tibet, presumably on the orders of their masters in Bejing.

At times I despair. Nothing changes. I have no answers and that at times worries me. Some religious adherents can be exceedingly self satisfied as to their beliefs. I make no point as to the rights or otherwise of religions converting others to their viewpoint. (I remember vividly feeling rather smug as a ten year old that I was lucky enough to be going eventually to an 'afterlife', others, apparantly were not to be so lucky. This of course I had been 'taught' as a child.) But as an adult I am non too impressed by many pious individuals of many different religions who seem convinced they and their ilk alone are assured of eternal salvation. (Though not all, many are sympathetic and understanding of other religions/beliefs.) Fanatics cum zealots are both frightening and dangerous. But this is not the main point of this post. The point that struck me most was how short is life. How repetative are mankinds mistakes. And so it will presumably be, for ever and ever. Deja-vu indeed. What say ye? .

Its All in the Mind; Why I've no Idea.

So I do this post, Sunday Roast at the invitation of Eddie Bluelights. (A confession. When Eddie first arrived on the blogging scene, not very long ago, I thought he was something of an upstart. Full of enthusiasm; so keen, so new, so early. I was so jealous; and oh so wrong.) Excellent blogger and prolific with it. Well done my friend. And from this 'invitation blog' came a 'tagging' request from LiZZie' in the form of eight personal facts (of no importance whatsoever.) Which solved the problem of this weeks blog. (Not long ago I thought a 'tag' was something mother stitched into the back of your coat when you were at school.)

Now at the risk of repeating myself, I honestly believe that everything we have experienced in life is stored somewhere in the brain. its all a matter of retrieval. And nobody has yet answered satisfactorily as to where it all goes when the lights finally go out. So before this gets too deep, eight little observations.

1 I have always been absent minded, dilatory, hopeless, even as a child. Why else would I go to town on my bike and come home on the bus. (The bike was still there next day.)

2 But if my memory is so bad how come I can still remember two questions from my 11+ exam of fifty nine years ago.

Question. Yesterday, today was tomorrow. True or false.

Question. George Washington was born, married and died in the house he built himself. Which one is obviously incorrect.

3 On my first day at Woolworth's, seventeen years of age I had no dinner. No-one told me when my dinner hour was. It never happened again.

4 When I was about twelve the chapel I attended (Moravian) presented a Tibetan Buddhist monk convert to Christianity with a typewriter that typed in Tibetan (Made in Derby). I remember thinking, blimey, I bet they don't sell many of those in Derby.

5 I have often been mistaken for Lord Bath. (See blog dated 22nd September 2009.) Funnily enough my parentage is obscure and it was once suggested that my father was 'someone who visited the big house' where my mother was a 'skivvy'.

6 When teaching in the large comprehensive I once told a young man loitering on the stairs to 'clear off' back to his classroom,' and be quick about it Sad really, as he was a 'youngish' workman painting the stairs for the council and was just having a rest.

7 The Berlin Wall came down on my birthday. (November 9th.)

8 The first record on my jukebox is Old Rivers by Walter Brennan. The last is 'Cavatina' from The Deer Hunter, guitar played by John Williams. (And if you take nothing else away from this blog, treat yourself and play Old Rivers.)

I know, I know, what a lot of old cobblers. But perhaps blogging should not be tense, serious and deeply philosophic all of the time. And why should I be the only one to suffer. LiZZie suggests I 'tag' other bloggers. So would any of the following like to have a go. Its not compulsory of course and I shan't be offended if its not your scene. You have been chosen simply because you are new to my blog. And more than likely much more interesting than this foolish geriatric. Anyone else wishing to join in, be my guest.

Gramme's Blog. Mr London Street. Gaston Studio. Molly Potter. A Heron's View.

Don't make a Hash, when disposing of Ash.

I'm not feeling morbid, honest but a family bereavement set me thinking. An old family friend died recently and his ashes were scattered at Filey. Evidently he spent much of his childhood there. Now I've nothing against Filey but it won't be my choice. Which begs the question, where would you choose.
I'm a lifelong Derby County fan and have a brick set in the floor outside the ground. It reads' The best of times, the worst of times.' (Dickens, Hard Times.) I have thought of Pride Park as a last resting place, somewhere near the penalty spot. Only the groundsmen go round at half time with garden forks and prod the ground. I don't fancy that one bit. How unsightly, bits of me on the end of a fork, on a windy day the possibilities are endless. I'm serious, honest.
The friend of a friend of mine died young. He had during his short life a love of Combe Martin in Devon. And what are friends for. His friends drove all the way down to Devon, urn between passengers feet for a last scattering of his ashes. Only Combe Martin beach is draughty at the best of times. A walk to the waves, lid off and whoosh, ash was everywhere. Mothers who had just bought their children ice creams were far from pleased, I can tell you. Funnily enough, Harry, the deceased would have found it hilarious. He was always one for a practical joke.
I was brought up a Moravian and attended a little chapel in the village of Ockbrook. In my school teaching days I once took a minibus of what was then called remedial children to the chapel in the hope of educating them. Several had never been out of the town, never mind inside a religious establishment. Only about fifteen minutes into a somewhat laid back trip one youngster presented me with a small quarter full container he had retrieved from under a seat at the back of the church come chapel. A container I doubt we would have ever seen again had it been of any value. It was of course an urn containing someones ashes, placed in a safe place, ready for a memorial service and scattering of ashes in a day or two's time. Only, as Jim Royal would say, 'safe place my a***.' Mind you, it didn't take us long to top up the urn. Remedial they might have been but never call the kids I taught daft. We had the urn topped up in minutes, no one ever realises how much dust there is in the world until you really look. Mixed well and full to the brim, the urn was hastily returned to its original resting place. Well done lads. It was only on the way home that it dawned on me perhaps the urn was never full in the first place! Thank heaven I was not there to see the urn retrieved.
Its a problem to be sure. How many urns plus ashes finish on the mantle piece. I know of at least one case where this is so because the relations cannot agree on a last resting place. But in this technological age there are possibilities not available to 'ash scatterers' of past eras.
Scotty (James Doohan) of Star Trek fame had his ashes sent up into space on Rocket Falcon 1 courtesy of Celestris Inc. (Along with 208 others.) Only nothing on earth, and seemingly in space is ever simple. The rocket failed and finished up in the ocean. As good a place as any, I suppose.
(Its not as if only ashes can be a problem if you don't keep an eye on them. The story goes that Thomas Hardy's heart was placed on a table prior to internment and his favourite cat, Cobby carted it off.)
If you want your ashes close to hand (or heart, or ear for that matter) there are some intriguing possibilities in this ultra modern age. Possibilities certainly not available to your great granny.
One enterprising firm suggests turning the ashes into a diamond. Remember, folks, 'A diamond is forever.' No, then how about a piece of jewellery 'to keep near to your heart.' ( a locket with space inside to keep a few ashes. With the bonus of 10% off orders of five or more. The mind boggles with possibilities we won't go into.) And if you're used to being useful in this world and don't fancy doing nothing in the next life, how about being turned into something decorative; a paper weight for instance. (Engraved on the base free of charge.) I kid you not. Who was it who said there's no peace for the wicked. My apologies to anyone my irreverence offends but honestly, if you didn't laugh you'd cry.

So there you have it, the choice is vast, the choice is yours. But words of advice. Whatever you do, get relations or friends to keep their eyes on any ashes prior to decision making. And don't under any circumstances place them in the care of any of the worlds airlines. Emirates Airlines had a case containing ashes stolen on a stopover in Dubai. (I would love to have seen the thieves faces when they opened it up.) Plus Ryanair also lost an urn plus ashes travelling from Australia to Ireland. No wonder when the world's airlines apparently lose 10,000 items of luggage a day. Perhaps I'll opt for burial after all.

Tell a Lie and Find the Truth Spanish Proverb.

George was so pleased with his new hatchet he used it to cut down father's favourite cherry tree. Dad came across the fallen tree and he was not best pleased. He asked George who was responsible and he felt, as any child would that to lie was the best idea. Only George was a well brought up child and his answer is well documented. "I cannot tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet." Well done George, George Washington that is.

I too was, I reckon, a well brought up child. Influenced as a member of the Moravian Church, the one thing impressed on me was the difference between right and wrong. My religious convictions were never set in stone, so to speak, but I have never willingly lied, whatever the consequences. I find it difficult to comprehend how some lie so easily and so often. I was always taught as a child that Moravians are God fearing to the extent that they are exempt from having to swear on a Bible in a British court, though I have never seen this premise actually tested in a court of law. I do many bad things but lying is not one of them.

I passed down a road in the Peak District this weekend, at a place called Owler Bar. A road I vaguely recognised; then my connection to the place slowly dawned on me. Around forty years ago I travelled down this road in a minivan with three other people. A Sprite sports car passed us somewhat erratically, enough to ensure comment, not all favourable. Five minutes later and the sight that met our eyes was desperately unwelcome. The Sprite lay upside down on the road, wheels forlornly spinning, the soft top shredded, steam everywhere, the smell of petrol sinisterly threatening, the driver half in and half out of his pride and joy. Tragedy on a summer's afternoon.

We lifted the car to an upright position, for my companions, though young were fit and strong.

The driver, a young man in his twenties, though conscious, was seriously injured; obviously terminally so even to my inexperienced eyes. I could do little to help as we awaited professional help and Owler Bar is a lonely spot. I held his hand, feeling inadequate in the extreme. His words I had forgotten until this weekend. "I'm dying," he said, looking to me for reassurance.

I've never forgotten that young man or the experience of that afternoon, all those years ago.

Three weeks later I was subpoenaed to attend his inquest. I also bought another vehicle, a Mini Cooper, not my first choice, a sports car with a soft top. And I've never forgotten that young man's simple question. Would your answer have been my answer, I wonder.