On Being Easily Moved

I happened to catch the end of 'Goodbye Mr Chips' recently. (The 1969 version starring Peter O'Toole.) I found the closing speech where the socially inept Mr Chips puts into words his feelings for the boys surprisingly moving. Maybe it struck a cord, me being a schoolmaster for a considerable number of years. If nothing else it made me examine aspects of my being that seldom surface in the busy, brusque, often insensitive world we live in.
I was brought up in a time after the war where the term 'cry baby' often figured. A 'cry baby' was dismissed as inferior, weak and certainly unmanly. Which is probably why on at least two occasions I limped home, metaphorically and literally with broken bones. My efforts at competing with the 'bigger boys' might well often end in failure but, good heavens, you didn't let it show, broken bones or no broken bones. And I remember arriving home at the age of thirteen to be told my mother had died. Then, amazingly, I went out and did my paper round. I report this merely as fact, not a matter of pride. No tears, nothing but unbridled sorrow and bewilderment.
Experiences in life teach us, mould us, change us, for better or worse and make the finished article, however flawed. Girls cry, boys have a stiff upper lip, or so we were taught. (The British Empire and all that.) Fortunately times change, thank goodness.

I once saw an elderly male teacher cry with the frustrations of the job. I was embarrassed to see a man crying; I was wrong. But bit by bit the joys of marriage, children softened me and the steely male front has slipped away. Not totally, but at least to a degree. I know this must be so. I would never at one time been moved by Mr Chips, never mind a celluloid version of life's sensibilities.

I cry nowadays, not too often but enough. I howled as I watched both the Liverpool Heysel (1985) and Hillsborough (1989) tragedies unfold on the television. In frustration, sympathy. (I am an ardent football fan) Similarly the Bradford City fire (1985) brought my to tears as I watched the tragedy unfold, again on the television. Indeed, you would have to be a strangely unemotional individual not to be moved by such tragic events. I am not a 'touchy feely' sort of person and that is not particularly good. My daughters are into 'hugs' (many of the younger generation tend to be so and I am mightily impressed.) But I can be moved nowadays and I am pleased. The feeling experienced at Wembley Stadium when Derby County won an important match had to be experienced to be believed. (play off versus WBA 2007.) That something as unimportant as a football match could move me so much is amazing in a way. But only a football fan could experience the elation involved.

Emotional development is important. What is a person without emotional development. You tell me. A psychopath, perhaps? And I believe at least in part it is taught by example.

I have read John Steinbeck's 'Of Mice and Men' many, many times. It was a regular choice of mine when teaching English literature to adolescents. We would read it out loud together, no looking at a film and pretending we had read the book. (How old fashioned it all sounds now.)

You would have to be bereft of any feeling whatsoever not to be moved by the end of the tragic giant Lennie at the hand of his friend George. But to see teenagers, sometimes hardened teenagers with tears in their eyes shows the power of the written word. It also suggests there is perhaps hope for all. (Two teenagers were sentenced this week for the shotgun murder of another teenager in a park less than a mile from my home. The victims offence, he 'dissed' the mother of one of the assailants. Perhaps I am totally wrong and there is no hope. My lovely grandchildren suggest otherwise.)

I had not intended this piece of writing to go in the direction it has. But the murder on my doorstep makes me wonder at the emotional development or otherwise of some of today's more deprived youngsters. Where is it all going wrong, a world where a teenager will dispatch a fellow being to eternity with little thought or compulsion. Surely a person without feelings is a person without hope.

A non too serious test of my readers emotional development. My favourite recording is 'Old Shep' by Walter Brennan. Trite, sentimental it still moves me on a good day. What do you reckon. And what brings a lump to your throat in this hard, often unsentimental world? Plus a promise, my next blog will be cheerful in the extreme. Now there's a thought!

Memories are Made of This. (Dean Martin)

Some of my readers will remember that I have been involved in an autobiographical work for some considerable time. Sixty thousand words later a torrent of words have become a dribble.

Now I honestly believe everything we have ever experienced is stored in our minds, for the human brain is cleverer than any computer. The problem is how to recall a lifetime's 'happenings'.

I have lived for well over twenty five thousand days, perish the thought. But how many of those days can I honestly recall. For someone who can rarely remember what he had for breakfast, quite a thought! In life's journey what do we actually remember.

We usually remember births (our children, not our own), weddings, funerals, serious illnesses, some holidays, and very occasional special days in a lifetime in employment. Schooldays, some at least stay in the mind though actual dates are often gone forever. We often remember 'firsts'. Our first television, new furniture (when poor and first married), and as we prospered, first and subsequent cars, houses and so on.

We remember days from decades; in my case the forties, fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties. (Strangely I remember less of the nineties.) We can often recall a day or days at the age of ten, twenty, thirty, forty and so on. (I often suggest to elderly groups who 'hire' me as a speaker that they all write a day in their life and publish it as a fundraiser, the end products often dwarfs my efforts.)

We sometimes remember great moments in history and exactly what we were doing at the time. The assassinations for instance of J F Kennedy and John Lennon. (I remember a school teacher coming into the class room and announcing that a man called Gandhi, of whom I had never heard had been assassinated in a country that I knew not of, called India. I suspect many of our most entrenched memories are the result of trauma.

Both my wife and I are ardent fans of Derby County and seldom miss a home game. (Please, no rude comments though messages of sympathy are acceptable.) Over the years I have probably watched nearly a thousand football matches. That would account for over 90,000 minutes of my life if my maths are right. (I was an English teacher, not maths!) Yet I remember one match in detail, at Wembley Stadium and bits and pieces of a few others. The details of whole seasons I cannot recall.

I have just had a wonderful relaxed, pleasant overnight stay in our motorhome in Castleton, Derbyshire. Weather, perfect, company, perfect, experience, perfect. As I said earlier I am absolutely sure such memories are stored in the mind forever more, but more important, will I be able to recall such a tiny part of my life in five years time. (For the religious amongst you, where do our memories go after we are dead?) Mine hopefully will in part be written down, but, realistically, from a cynical point of view, who else cares.

I kept a diary of sorts for one year as a child. (See blog dated Diary of an Adolescent, 1953 dated 11th April 2009.) I also kept a diary in far more detail for the year 1985. I'm no Samuel Pepys but it is of value to me in that it records unimportant details of my life that year. (It seems to be around 70,000 words long.) It also details for only the second time in my life what I did on given days. (It does not record every single day, even I recognise the sheer mundanity of my life at times.) But it is useful in showing the minuscule nature of daily life.

June 16th 1985

Woken at 5.00 am by children in an adjoining tent! On Saturday evening a family arrived complete with shining Mercedes.The camping field contained only four tents. Our new neighbours promptly pitched tent within feet of our tent! How strange is it that we are conditioned to live in close proximity to our neighbours. Are we therefore almost frightened of the wide open spaces offered! ( In actual fact, when the minor irritation of the close proximity wore off the family proved to be pleasant, outgoing neighbours.)

Skegness is again visited, fish and chips, that most staple of diets again sampled. We return home mid afternoon happy and relaxed. Who needs the Costa-Bravo!

Now, dear readers, what do you remember from your journey through life.

One, a memory from childhood.

Two, a memory that highlights for you a certain decade.

Three, something of world shattering importance.

Four, something of importance to you only.

Finally, a happy event you will remember forever.