“Our kid”

I sincerely apologise for the length of this story, but believe me it was necessary, thank you for your indulgence. ~

I sat staring blankly at the television screen, just me, the TV and a chair. I had sat there now for some little time, a lump in my throat, my emotions just ripping away at my insides as I tried to summon up enough courage to turn the damn thing on! I was angry, I was an empty vessel, yet my feelings ran rampant. I longed so much not to believe the tape, a tape I had yet to watch, even though the dreaded content I knew already. ~

The Christmas card had arrived well in time, as it always had when the family sent them over from the old country. My youngest brother now held the reigns for that annual chore, ever since Mom passed away a few years back, God I still miss her so much.

No more those welcome phone calls, the unmistaken English accent, and who could forget the incredulous questions each time?

“Hello. Is that Eric? Is that Canada? “

The almost disbelief in her voice like that of a child, that you really were not standing in the next room, but indeed 3000 miles away. ~ She never did get used to the magic of the telephone.

Then Ron took over the cards & ocassional phone calls, the greeting there being,

“Hi there Our Kid!” a pause, “Are you doin alright then?”

A favorite phrase that somehow had attached itself to me from Ron. Both the call and the card were very special that year, for they became the very last I would receive.

A couple of weeks later Ron collapsed and died, no apparent warning. ~

I was angry at myself for not being there and worse, not being able to travel such distances now, because of my own health problems. ~

One of the in-laws promised me that the whole funeral & service would be filmed on tape for me. ~

I pressed the TV remote on/play button. ~

The dark screen sprang to life, as swiftly, figures appeared scurrying past the camera in an effort to get seen and be heard. The sounds of “Hi,” “Hi Eric” fell on my ears, with the odd waving hand slipping by, belonging to only who knows who. The camera scanned the church as people moved down the aisles to find a seat, I strained to see if there was anyone I recognised. Quite frankly I was amazed at the numbers of people present, some sad, others chatting away among themselves as they waited for things to settle down and the service to start. I never realized that so many even knew Ron. Tentatively I looked down at the front of the church aisle towards the alter, I was looking for the coffin.

With none in sight it looked more like a turnout for a wedding, with a moderately jovial crowd.

Quietly, I sat looking through my own personal window, protected from the crowd I could see and waited. Sobbing silently as with a flurry of activity, two ushers wheeled in the coffin on a covered trolley, the lump took a violent jump.

A guttural sound forced its way out of my throat, as tears started to flow onto my cheeks. In my mind I was crying out “Ron No!” and the tears became a deluge. Elizabeth came over and hugged me, her own tears falling over my face.

Settling down a little I rewound the couple of minutes of tape I’d missed. At that point the Vicar entered and made his way to the alter, went through his ritual, then turned to address the congregation. I sat there staring, hardly hearing most of the first words he uttered, these were mostly of the routine kind anyway and he had a musically accending voice that was difficult at best.

It had been decided by me prior, that I would furnish the Eulogy, to be read by the vicar on my behalf. ~ He proceeded to move along in that direction, after spending what seemed like an eternity voicing accolades over Ron and his life. ~

Finally my turn arrived as the vicar picking up the eulogy, started reading. He read with a reverance and pride, maybe the most impactive speech he had done in a long while. His reading and voice reflecting to me, that maybe he had practised this before the service began, I just swallowed hard, only to have another lump lodge in my throat. ~

Eulogy/Ron

I come to you today, tho’ conspicuous in my absence, to join with you, both relatives and friends in a celebration of life, for my brother Ron.

Dear Ron, my heart, tho’ full of love for you is also so heavy with grief at your departure.
For some time now you have been on my mind, I guess getting cards from you over Christmas will do that to a person. Of course at times like that, I usually dig out any photographs that I have of the family and reminisce about how I wish I wasn’t so far away, for I have missed you so much.

Not so amazing is how now, at a time like this memories come flooding back to me.

Always foremost in my mind, was always your strength of purpose as you bounded through whatever life threw at you. Many times in my life I have envied you your strength of character, something I wished I had had more of.

But I also remember, your apparent fragile state when as a child of two, you fell off the second stair from the bottom and apparently broke your arm, an accident that soon lost its sense of pain after the crying stopped, for now you had a nice clean cast to show everyone and of course be made a fuss of.

I remember as a child the time before the war and our evacuation to Blackpool, when we had to go in the Sunday school "Manchester Walk" one Easter Sunday I believe, you holding my left hand and Harold holding my right. I have never forgotten that day, for we had to wear little velvet suits that our Mom had made for the occasion, I remember mine was a light Blue.

Even later your excitement at owning your first motorbike, a BSA if I remember correctly. I was left feeling quite humble, for I just had a bicycle although that was my choice. As time went on, the apprehension or excitement at having to go into the army like our brother Harold did under national conscription or as I did as a regular and then you got the cushy job as cinema projectionist for your army service. I still have the photo of you guzzling back a beer on a nice sunny day.

There are so many memories of those years of our growing up, good times, rough times and a few good battles on the golden mile after a few beers, when the ‘Valentines’ took on all comers, I guess in those days we had quite the reputation. Like the three musketeers, it was always "all for one and one for all" with us. I think of those days often and still get a wry smile on my face.

I remember too, all the good times at the clubs, such great friends and friendly camaraderie, as we played our games of darts, cards and domino’s, we did pretty good in those days.

In more recent years since our parents and Harry passed on, we seemed to get even closer you and I. I can still hear your voice when you picked up the phone and uttered those now famous words ‘Hi there our kid’, such a term of endearment from you, one that I shall never forget. I love you Ron, it breaks my heart to realize I will never hear those words again over the phone, or receive the cards you always picked out to send me with such caring and love. I will always love and remember you Ron and all the members of the family no longer here. I dedicate this poem to you that I wrote in my grief.

See you ‘Our kid’ Your loving brother Eric.


Au Re-voir

Warm moisture feel I on my face
Lips tremble tears abound,
My arms around you in embrace.
In sadness, I cradle you.

Misted thoughts do crowd the space,
In my endless swirling mind
Of better times, or better place
But of this you’re not aware.

I grieve for your reality,
Yet celebrate the freedom of your soul.
As silently away you slip,
From the realm of my reality, into
The memory pastures of my mind.

Eric Valentine ©

One Christmas

Can’t you tell that Christmas is upon us. Yesterday I was in the bathroom puttering around to start the day, when in walked the wife. I can always tell when she’s up to something for she gets this mischievous look on her face and a twinkle in her eyes.

“Don’t forget to shave,” she quipped with a smile.

“Why, are we going someplace love?”

“Well no, but you always look better when you have shaved. I want to take some pictures of you wearing this hat.” She flourished a Santa hat from behind her back, then promptly plonked it on my head!

“I’m not wearing that thing!” I retorted while tossing it aside, chuckling as I uttered that futile protest, for I knew she would insist and eventually the pictures would be taken.

It was the magic of Christmas in the air that got me thinking. On this ocassion I was reminded of how differently Christmas is celebrated in various parts of my world.

Here in North America and in Canada in particular, things are very commercialized and on view to the naked eye. Houses are decorated and lit up on the outside, in most cases a thing of beauty, but with the ocassional glaring garish display.

Over in England where I originate from, Christmas is more of an indoor decoration & celebration, unless one tends to go into the town and mix with all the party revelers. Thinking about all this earlier today, brought to mind a memory of when I was a small kid and times were very different in the world. Sitting there daydreaming, I thought of how we used to go out Christmas caroling. This was a popular tradition years ago back home. There would be a knock on the door and when you opened it a group of children would be singing xmas carols. After a couple of songs the people would tip them and off they would go to another house.

It was almost like looking through a window in time as I gazed into my memory. There we were, my brothers and I getting all excited about Christmas and going out carol singing. ~

I thought about the year my two small brothers and I went and rang the bell on the door of a huge hotel on the seafront. I didn’t think too much of it for I delivered newspapers in that area. This man came to the door and as he looked down on us, we started to sing carols. Surprisingly, he was patient enough until we finished. He asked us questions about ourselves and then enquired, did we think our Mother would let us go back to the hotel later that evening? Even though I was only 9 yrs old I knew mom would say it was ok and told the man so. It was arranged then that we go back at 7:30 that evening. Apparently they were putting on a Xmas production for the hotel guests. The man wanted us to go on stage and sing some carols for the audience. We turned up on time and accompanied by a piano, went through our score. We were very warmly received and the crowd were very enthusiastic with their applause.

If you can imagine three scruffy little urchins standing on a stage in ragged short pants singing like angels, we must have looked a right sight. I guess you get the idea, we were almost like a scene from “Oliver Twist” and this was Christmas 1942, ~ there was still a war on.

After we had finished our singing a lady took us along to the hotel kitchen. We sat down to the biggest spread of food that I had ever seen, except maybe in movies.

To start there were Christmas crackers, the kind you pull, they go bang and a trinket usually falls out along with a paper hat. Food was jelly and canned fruit with custard, turkey sandwiches with lots of white turkey and stuffing, English trifle and to finish it all off was a big piece of English Christmas cake with Royal icing, very much like a wedding cake today. We stuffed ourselves as kids will, and to take home they made up a bag of goodies plus a nice box of chocolates for Mom.

In addition to the feast, the hotel people had ‘passed the hat’ around the audience and took up a collection for our performance. We almost fell over when we saw how much money they handed us. It came to about five English pounds, the equivalent of two weeks wages for an adult. We thanked everyone very much for their kindness and the experience, then rushed home to mom with the loot. ~

I stepped back from my ‘window’ only to find tears trickling down my cheeks, as I related my story to Elizabeth. I remembered those times, I remembered my family, all of who are gone now but not forgotten, for I will always have my ‘window’.

The wife brushed away my tears and scolding me gently said,“Just look at you, you didn’t even comb your hair today.” To which I replied, “Oh yes I did, then someone put a silly hat on my head!” We hugged as she laughed at me, tears still fresh on her face.

Eric Valentine Dec 08/07 ©

C'ya

Mist & Mystery

This particular blog, will mark the one hundredth post I will have made since I started blogging this last January. To celebrate that milestone for me I decided that something a little special was in order. To that effect I have put together a true story taken from my life, a couple of segments of which I did post in part quite a while ago. Today I will post the whole story, now that a few missing pieces have finally fallen into place completing the picture.

This is about the most personel thing that I have written to date, other than the earlier ~ “Eyes of a Child” autobiographical series of posts. So forgive me if it is a little lengthy.




Mist & Mystery

1937

The yellow haze hung in the air like an impending disaster. Above the haze even larger volumes of stormy clouds swirled around tenaciously. Slowly at first the drizzle came down, the kind they call Scotch mist. It saturates the clothing in a very short time and leaves you standing there freezing to the bone. From the edges of the undergrowth rose a cold damp mist that enshrouds and clings to everything. Visibility was at a minimum, making one feel like they were trapped inside some endless void or a drain, much like a drowned rat.

Slowly out of the murky depths emerged a figure, a small slight woman holding the hand of a child. Hunched over against the cold and wet breeze she peered looking for something. Gradually, slowly, like ghostly apparitions, headstones emerged from the mist. Still my mother and I moved on seeking now we can presume, a particular grave. ~ I was four years old.

That is all I can remember about that visit other than eventually we arrived at a headstone. Then we just stood there in the cold misty rain, and my mother adding a warming tear or two.

That was the only visit I ever made to what I found out years later, was my fathers grave. Came the war, evacuations and I just forgot the road back.

At the time of my fathers death, I was a baby of two, with a brother one year old and my mother was six months pregnant with my youngest brother.

As a child growing up it’s not too difficult to notice that other kids have a dad, yet I did not. Whenever I brought up the question I was always told he had died in an accident at a steel mill.

I was ten years old when my mother remarried.

As time passed my stepfather changed from being the nice okay person we had come to know. He became instead quite hateful and spiteful with us kids, with beatings and saying terrible things about how our real father had died, thus creating doubts & mystery that stayed in my mind. Consequently I never did reach any good relationship level with this new man in our life. Instead, I left home at age 17 and never lived there again.

In 1969 my step-father died, so I flew home from Canada for his funeral, but only for my mothers sake.

I might add that even then I was filled with bitterness towards that figure laying in the coffin. It came as no surprise, when I couldn’t shed a tear at the funeral. It took many years for me to come to terms with all that happened and eventually reach a state of forgiveness. ~ Surprisingly, it was only then that I shed a tear for this man.

Before I left England to come back home, I remember my mother calling me into the sitting room. She said that she had something to show me that she thought I should see now, it was something she had kept hidden from us all of our life. Carefully she reached up and took down a sizeable picture that had hung on the walls all those years. Taking the frame apart she removed the picture and revealed yet another picture hidden behind the original.

With misty tears clouding her eyes she handed it to me. It was a fading picture of my biological father hidden behind the other picture.
I was almost 37 yrs old at that time. It had been hanging on that wall all those years! yet she had never spoken a word about it.
Up to that point in time, I had never seen a picture of my father before not ever! Now being an adult, I can understand her doing that rather than having to dispose of it, in light of her getting remarried.

Because of the advent of her death, I have that picture today. Pretty strange no matter how you want to look at it, for I never suspected. ~ Even after all these years I am still amazed. ~

Years later, 2007

Recently at the age of 74, I received a very pleasant surprise. It was an email from my niece in England. In her mail she asked me for some help because she was doing some research into our ancestry/family tree.
It is amazing really what turns up once you get started into something like that. With the documentation we have put together, there is information that goes as far back as six generations.
Of course what seems so ironical is, I had already been writing about our family history myself, there were however many gaps and unanswered questions.

All of this had of course raised the spectra of the doubts of my fathers death, the product of the seeds, sown so long ago in my mind by my stepfather. Doing this research then prompted the possibility of a death certificate for my father? My hopes were slim but we set out to determine that possibility.

For a few days while I waited for more news I was thinking, it was almost like this ancestry thing was just meant to happen, for in doing so it opened that door that had been closed for far too long on unanswered questions.

Later I heard from my relative that after much difficulty, she finally had the document. I waited expectantly for a copy to arrive in my mailbox.

Trembling, I opened my mailbox and there it was, his death certificate. With bated breath I magnified the copy so I could read what it said.

“Cause of death: ~ Coal Gas poisoning ~ Suicide.

I should have felt something at the news, maybe bitterness, even anger? Yet I couldn’t find an angry bone in my body for this man, the man who could have been a father.

With a lump in my throat I tried to swallow, tears trickling down my cheeks. Finally at last. ~ Closure. ~

It was a cool wet miserable day outside, which kind of jogged my memory because of all the things that had been going on. I stood at the window peering through the misty rain. I remembered a visit to a cemetery as a four year old child so long ago.

I thought about that now cold, wet, worn headstone and found myself adding a warming tear of my own. ~

Eric Valentine Aug 25/07 ©

C'ya

#5 Sequel

Cutting a long story short we ended up walking almost half the 18 miles and getting a ride on the back of an old flatbed style coal lorry (truck) the rest of the way. Well you can imagine the look on the sergeants face when we rolled in, wearing the Queens uniform and totally covered in coal dust! The rest of that episode is too, too sad.
**
*

You have to realize that we guys were just very young army ‘Nig Nogs’ ~ that is raw recruits. ~ So upon finding out that the last bus had already left, there was a momentary fit of panic set in. Learning army discipline will do strange things like that to you in the beginning. The discipline is designed to have every man act as one upon command, the premise being that one day that same discipline may save your life. So it was that we set off for camp the minute we realized we could end up in trouble. ~ (Late & marked AWOL) Grrrrr perish the thought!

It’s not much fun when you are hoofing hell bent for leather down a country road in uniform, certainly working up a sweat in a hurry. There are no lights in the country & no stars for the sky was overcast. So you just follow the road hoping for the best, that something will come along so we can hitch a ride. It was just our good luck that this lorry came down the road and pulled over. “Running late are you lads, need a lift?” the driver shouted out. Quickly we gathered around the cab hoping we would fit in there, but no luck.


Take it or leave it, we had to climb on the back and hang on to the rail that ran behind the cab. Straight away we were covered in coal dust, it was all over our hands. Then looking down with a groan, saw it was all over our uniforms from climbing aboard. Not much we can do about that now I guess. I for one was just hoping that as the truck went down the highway the wind would take most of it off, but not much luck for it just kicked up more coal dust.
We went along and keeping an eye on the time, breathed a sigh of relief as it looked like we would make it in time after all.

When one goes out in their off duty time you have to sign out at the guardhouse as you leave camp. So when we arrived back, there was no way we could sneak in for we had to sign in again on our return. Being as it’s that late in the evening too, more reason we would be seen by the sergeant and we were.

In the British Army the well known (music hall) saying was “laddie,” so when those who wield power want you, that’s when you hear that well known phrase ringing from the heavens! ~
Tonight was no exception when the sergeant laid eyes on us, “miserable manky miscreants” his words, “Where the hell have you been & what the fr***en hell happened you miserable little men.” ~ More of his soft fatherly renderings.

He then proceeded to verbally berate you downwards till you shrink down to about two inches in height, I am sure that at that point he would have loved to raise his boot and stomp on us like some small irritating bugs.

The end result to all of the verbal rampage is, we got put on report and the following day got sentenced to 7 days confined to barracks. That also means working cookhouse duties, usually spud bashing (peeling taters) ~ ever figure out just how many potatoes a camp full of soldiers can eat? You don’t really want to know my friend.

So that was the memorable end to an even more memorable 18th birthday, one I certainly can‘t forget.

There are many stories in the life of a soldier, this has been one of them.

C’ya

A Visit to my Father’s Grave

The yellow haze hung in the air like an impending disaster. Above the haze even larger volumes of stormy clouds swirled around tenaciously. Slowly at first the drizzle came down, the kind they call Scotch mist. It saturates the clothing in a very short time and leaves you standing there freezing to the bone. From the edges of the undergrowth rose a cold damp mist that enshrouds and clings to everything. Visibility was at a minimum, making one feel like they were trapped inside a bottle or a drain like a drowned rat.

Slowly out of the murky depths emerged a figure, a small slight woman, holding the hand of a child. Hunched over against the cold and wet breeze she peered looking for something. Gradually, slowly, like ghostly apparitions, headstones emerged from the mist. Still my mother and I moved on seeking now we can presume, a particular grave. ~ I was four years old.

That is all I can remember about that visit other than eventually we arrived at a headstone. Then we just stood there in the cold misty rain, and my mother added a warming tear or two. That was the only visit I ever made to what I found out years later, was my fathers grave. Came the war, evacuation and I just forgot the road back.

All of this I have to say, has been brought about pure and simply because Julie contacted me, about tracing my families ancestry for her daughter.

One wonders in this exciting adventure, about the long and winding road.

To you Julie, I am forever indebted for this trip.

C’ya

Eyes Of A child ~ part 4

The war had been on now for a few months and Christmas was upon us. Quite frankly I can’t really recall if we even had a Christmas that year, or for a few years. With all the regulations about house lights and blackouts (windows being covered so as to show no light outside, because of air raids) and a constant shortage of supplies of any kind, it’s doubtful that much of anything was observed for some time, except the ache in your heart.

With the outbreak of the war, no father and times of poverty, there really wasn’t very much Christmas spirit to speak of. I do remember mom taking us kids to see a pantomime (live) show, which I believe starred Tommie Handley from the “ITMA Radio fame”. ( remember, there was no television in those times either! Just Radio ) . I’m not sure if the pantomime was “Puss in Boots’ that year, for they did do a lot of those shows where we lived in Blackpool. Of course because of the war even some of those were somewhat restricted in numbers for a while.


(Fred Yule, Tommy Handley and Hattie Jacques, ITMA 1947))

I can of course remember seeing and almost bumping into Vera Lynn one time as she came out of the Palace Ballroom building. We were out with mom on the promenade, going someplace nearby when she came down the steps from the building. Vera Lynn was an entertainer, a singer. She performed shows, sang with a band and they played her song’s on the radio all the time. When you heard her voice you knew right away who it was, she had such a distinguished sound to her singing. She became a legend with the armed forces during the war.


So Christmas came and went and nothing changed from what had now become the norm. I don’t think we even got any snow that winter, but then I later learned that because we were living by the seaside snow didn’t last too long, because the salt air melted it quickly. Winter or not, us kids wore short pants year round anyway! (Shorts in North America) Talk about cold legs!
That was the custom of the times in England. Possibly it still is to a point, even today. Long pants came a bit later for kids. I think it was when a kid got to be about 11 years old and moving into another school level.

I still went to my makeshift school though and also attended the Sunday school, coupled with Sunday church services as a boy choir member. Speaking of choirboys. Boys will be boys, as the old cliché goes.

Like any other kids someone will always be up to a little mischief once in a while. This particular Sunday we were all gathered at the church for Sunday service as usual. Normally things went along like clockwork, today however we had been hanging around waiting, for the choirmaster had gone somewhere. We had been dressed a while now ready for the entrance parade as we called it. Naturally it wasn’t long before some of the kids started fidgeting. As a result one of the kids had been playing with matches. He had this piece of string which he had lit then blew out, now it was just smoldering. There he was swinging this thing around when the choirmaster walked in on us. Not knowing what to do in his panic, the kid stuffed the string into his coat pocket on the clothes hanger and off we went into the church.

The service started and we sang a couple of hymns and a psalm. Just about the time the vicar was going to announce a prayer, one of the congregation gave out a yell, “Fire!” Turning, we saw that there was smoke billowing out from the back room entrance to the pews. Meanwhile one kid in particular had turned a somewhat unhealthy shade of green! That episode promptly brought the service to a temporary halt while someone rushed out and checked things out. That didn’t make that kid feel much better, for he knew I’m sure that he was in for something not so good!

Fortunately it turned out to be not too serious, a small fire and lots of smoke. Things were very quickly brought under control.


Thus Endeth The Lesson!

~ongoing~

C’ya

Eyes Of A Child ~ Part 3

I was still smiling and looking at my new found treasure, the bible that I had received from Mrs Thompson whilst collecting salvage for the war effort. I took a few minutes to just flip through the bible and look at all the maps of the days when Jesus was so prominent in his jouney's preaching, that alone was so exciting. Tucking it away inside my jacket I continued around the rest of the houses in the street. Pretty soon I had filled two sacks with books etc for the war effort, which I promptly took home ready for pick up.

It was inevitable that after all the trauma of the events that had taken place, pretty soon it would be time when the kids would have to be put back into some sort of school environment. It had been some little time since I was in a school because of the evacuation. In those day’s in England, proper school started when you were 4 years old for there was no kindergarten or pre-school in place. This break was a nice holiday if one could call it that. You had of course to overlook all the heartbreak, upsets, and the reasons behind this whole business. Looking back now at my time of life, it seems a little easier, but then a lump comes in my throat, the true reality of those times are still so very real.

At the top of the street was a beautiful Grey stone church, named St. Paul’s. Right next door to the church was the vicarage where the vicar resided and next to that was the church Sunday school.
This then I was told, is where we would be schooled, at least until we could all be integrated into the regular school system.

Where I used to go to school in Manchester before the war evacuation, they served school dinners at noontime on tables covered with blue and white or pink and white gingham tablecloths. There was a dish they served that I grew to like very much. From what I can remember about it, it was canned corn beef cooked up in a large pot along with lots and lots of onions and I think some water with grated carrots, maybe a bit of grated turnip too. I don’t know if it was seasoned at all. I didn’t know anything about cooking at that time but it really tasted delicious. Mind you, any food tastes good when you’re a little kid! It was a big school too and in walking distance from where I lived.

This church then would be quite a change after that place, for this makeshift school had no school equipment at all.

It was while at that temporary school set up that I got my first experience of wartime rationing. I had to take lunch to school. Most times this consisted of margarine on 3 slices of cold toast wrapped up in wax paper, there was no stretch & seal in those days. After a while I actually I got to really like that for lunch. I can still remember just how good that toast tasted, for it seemed to have quite a different taste with it being cold.

The next shock I think you could call it, was there were no seats, no desks or anything of that nature that you would expect to find in a classroom.
What we did have was a large room that would hold quite a few kids. That was another thing too, this class would be made up of kids of all different ages from 4 right up to 9years old. The floor became our desk, our place to sit, even our place to have a nap when whoever was teaching us deemed it was time to nap! Somehow it would seem, we got through those tricky days and believe me there were many.

I think it was while we attended that school set up, that the vicar seizing the opportunity, got lots of new recruits for Sunday school and even had us go to church services. I can’t say it was such a bad thing, for eventually I became a member of the church choir.
This meant dressing up in all those funny outfits that choir people wear. I enjoyed that immensely, besides thinking that we all looked so Angelic and Innocent. Not So!

To be cont’d in part 4

C’ya

The First Bicycle

It was the late 30’s and war had broken out with Germany, that event would change the lives of everybody from that point on. Of course being a kid sometimes had its advantages, for the adults had to do all the worrying. Kids just did as they were told.

So after being evacuated out of the bombing zones, a new life was started in a new town. Life was pretty tough in the beginning with three families to a small house. Food and clothes were very scarce because of the rationing. There certainly was little money left over for anything other than necessities.

Rick was a scrawny kid of seven years going on eight, the eldest of three boys in the family. It wasn’t always easy because it seemed that with two younger brothers to keep an eye on, there wasn’t always enough time for any fun. As it was, he regarded himself as the man of the family even at that young age, for their father had died when they were mere babies. So with the advent of the times it was very hard in those days.

Anyway, not one to be deterred Rick had set his sights on a bike. Even at that young age he had a newspaper route. It didn’t pay a whole lot but after giving his wages to his mom to help out, she always gave him an allowance. All he had to do was save up whenever it was possible, it was a slow process but he knew eventually he would have enough.

Knowing that he could not afford a new bicycle yet, Rick had decided that the best way to go was to visit the local scrap yard. Equally as important to Rick though, nearby on his route, there was a bicycle shop that sold new bicycles. He had been in the store more than once, talking to the shopkeeper about how one day he would be buying one of those beautiful machines. The man would just smile and allowed Rick to browse around and sniff and touch the machines. Who knows, maybe one day the kid would have enough money to fulfill his dream. Anyway it was always nice to have such an enthusiastic potential customer. Besides, the paper always arrived on time and that pleased the storekeeper.

Near where Rick lived there was the scrap yard with all kinds of wonderful things in it. He had been there on a few occasions before taking a look around. Sometimes picking up anything that was of interest that he could maybe find a use for. The man who looked after the yard was used to him dropping by from time to time, so it was never a problem. It was amazing really just what kind of things one could find in there. For a kid it was a virtual treasure trove, for there was all kinds of household junk, old bikes, gas stoves, cupboards even some parts of cars and stuff. One time Rick had even found an old pair of roller skates that just needed a few new bearings, needless to say Rick had snapped up his find pretty fast. The scrap yard was where he had found the old wheels and axles, that he used to make his little wagon. He would use it sometimes to carry things home from the store for his mom so it was in constant use doing a variety of things. Besides having soapbox races with some of the other kids at times, he got lots of enjoyment from the wagon.

So all of this was his incentive to work at his project; for every day when doing his papers, he would take a look in the shop window at the bikes and wished. He could almost detect a new smell to the shiny bikes. For like most things that were new there always seemed to be that freshness odor about them, that made them seem almost delicious. The bikes with the sporty frames and new clean oiled chains riding over new gears. The pedals with their toe grips, so your feet wouldn’t slip off when you were pedaling. Brake cables that looked so resplendent along with the grips mounted on the drop handle bars. He just knew one day one of those beautiful machines would be his own.

So it was that one day not long after, Rick had enough money saved to go to the scrap yard. Entering the yard, he spoke to the man in charge and told him what he was looking for. He directed Rick to the area of the yard where there were all kinds of scrap bikes. Looking things over, it didn’t take Rick long to realize that one bike alone would not do the trick.

Rick started hunting through what was there. Finally he picked out three bikes that he figured he could strip down and use the parts to build one reasonable cycle. He then went to see the man again and struck a deal with him. I think the guy took pity on Rick and maybe was impressed at the way Rick had approached how he would achieve his goal. Having succeeded at the scrap yard, Rick went happily on his way home with half of his prizes in tow piled on his little wagon. It took two trips.

It was a couple of days later before Rick started to work on dismantling the scrap bikes. It sure was hard work at first, for a lot of the parts had started to rust over and some were no good at all. Piece by piece, the parts were taken off and assembled in a pile set to one side. Rick finally decided which frame he would use, then started to work at getting all the old finish and rust off it. That took a lot of painstaking work and not something that you would accomplish in a day. He then put it aside ready to be painted. It would sure look good with a nice shiny coat of red paint.
On checking the brake pads and housing mounts, he figured he could salvage a set that would do the job okay. He would have to buy new cables and pads. Fortunately the calipers were still pretty good.
Two or three of the wheels were in reasonable shape, with the exception of a couple of broken spokes that would need changing and new tires. All in all, things weren’t too bad, so Rick was quite happy with the results. Heck he even had a few spare parts over just in case anything went wrong later.

As it turned out, it was almost three more weeks before Rick was able to finally assemble his bike. The tires and cables had cost a bit more than he had figured they would be, so he had had to save a little more money.

Finally the great day came and Rick stood looking critically at the finished bike. It wasn’t brand new but it sure looked pretty good, so all excited he set off for a test drive. Gingerly, he took off down the street turning left past the stores and school, then carried on around the block of houses, finally arriving back home after a good workout of a couple of miles. All things considered, everything went okay for a first ride.
He just had a couple of minor adjustments to make to tighten up the chain, and one of the brakes slipped a bit, but an adjustment on the cable fixed that up fairly quickly. Finally, he had to lower the handlebars slightly.

There! Success!

He went to tell his mom, grinning from ear to ear for he was so pleased. Now all he had to save up for was a pair of new mudguards and the bike would really look something.

It sure was going to be a lot easier going to the paper shop to do his route, now that the bike was running okay. There would be no end to the things that he could do, using the bike. Of course, one of the first things he would do, was go to the bicycle store to show off his work to the storekeeper for he had told him about his project. The man had said he would like to see the bike when it was finished and Rick was proud of his achievement. Next he would call in at the scrap yard and show the man there what he had created out of the scrap bikes. Rick was looking forward with excitement to all the places he would be able to go to. Also, all the errands he could do for people to earn a little extra money.

Time to eat!

C'ya

Eyes Of A Child ~ part 2

I don't remember much of the next few days, except that the old man seemed to be so grumpy and mean towards me, at least that was my impression. I was heartbroken in my quiet moments, and I spent some very upsetting nights laying in bed wondering, if I would ever rejoin my brothers and mom again.

Now when I look back I realize that as a child filled with the trauma and heart wrenching events of the times, it’s normal to just remember the bad things. The tendency is at such a time of upset, to not even notice the normal every day happenings so easily taken for granted. A warm bed to sleep in, food on your plate, not to mention the ever watchful eyes of the people who unknowingly to me, ministered to my needs. Yes indeed, things were not really so bad with the old couple after all.

The one thing about that time period with the old couple, things were still quite unorganized and chaotic to a point. I believe that for the first week to ten days, someone would show up from an organization that I learned was called the W.V.S. (more on that later) They took us around to give the old couple a break, hold meetings and also get things more laid out, explaining things for children and families to ease any concerns.
I think of it now as more like a ‘Show & Tell time‘. It gave people a chance to get used to what would now be part of a regular system routine, regarding the measures that had been put in place. Also it gave some a feeling of being involved, and belonging at least to something, anything. It was also a time of interaction between people, children and the authorities, much like a cloud of busy little bees buzzing around in a veritable hive of activity.

It was about six weeks later that my mother came and took me away from the old couples house. As a child it’s hard to comprehend why things have to happen like that let alone why it takes so long. Small wonder you can feel like you have been deserted, but still I sobbed my heart out, even then.

I was so relieved when I saw my mother again I think I must have cried for a week, all the time mom was assuring me that everything would be alright from now on. We arrived at a house in Clevedon Rd and once again, it was a terrible feeling going into a strange house with strange older people. The recent memory of my last stop still fresh in my mind. All the same it was a nice cozy house, nicer than any I had seen before. We were welcomed in and introduced, then Mom showed me where I would be sleeping. At that time I rejoined my two brothers and believe me that was a happy tearful re-union. I don’t know who was the happiest for finally things felt a little more normal again.

It didn’t take too long for me to start feeling secure again, for I saw and was around, my brothers and mom once more. I started to learn from my mother just a few of the things that she had had, to become involved in because of the wartime circumstances. There was an organization called the W.V.S. (Women’s Volunteer Service.) That service covered a multitude of things that they did to assist in the effects of the war such as catering to children and family needs, services for the fighting men and much more.

There were responsibilities to address whenever an air-raid siren sounded, for drills were in place that had to be marshaled and body counts taken. One of the things that I enjoyed for I found even I could help, was believe it or not, knitting!
My mother had taught me how to knit, and so I used to sit on the steps and knit balaclavas and scarves for the soldiers, perhaps seventy items over 5 years. Closer to the end of the war, I had attempted to knit socks on four needles, but failed miserably when it came to turning the heel. One thing about growing up in wartime, you can learn such amazing things in an awful short time.


My recollection right after that is a little sketchy. I do know that we stayed at that house for quite some little time, and that these old people were very nice. I had made friends with a colored kid who lived up the street and he used to invite me round to help him. The people where he lived had a backyard with a shed full of tame rabbits, I guess they bred them. Here again I found myself settling down. The smell of the rabbits was unmistakable and watching the babies when they came along was typical kids fun stuff. It was a great time trying to imitate that movement they had with their noses.

I also spent some time helping with the war salvage; that is, going around the houses door to door on a paper salvage drive. In to-days world we call it recycling. That's the time that I got my very first old Bible.

I had knocked on the door of a house and this little old lady answered. She recognized me I think for it was on the same street where I was living. She knew right away why I was there and had some books and magazines ready for the sack I carried. Of course, nice old ladies are always pleasant and talk to small kids, so we chatted a while.
It was whilst I was putting the books into the sack that I noticed this old worn leather bound Bible. I had never had one before and just couldn’t think of a book like that going into the sack, not even for the War effort! I asked her if she would mind if I kept it for myself and she seemed quite pleased that I had asked, telling me she would love me to have it. Her name, Mrs Thompson, was written inside the cover of the bible. I left her smiling and I was just so happy at my new found treasure. I still had that bible forty years later.

Teas up!!

C'ya

Through The Eyes Of A Child

In thinking further about the “Reflections” blog a little more detail wouldn’t hurt I’m sure. So many times we see and read about war and the effects of it. The casualties to the forces, including death and damage done to property plus the resulting fallout effecting everyone. I think that the first largest change to register as a result of the times, were all the restrictions that had to be put onto the people. The most obvious being the Identity cards, food ration books, even ration books for simple clothing and shoes. All of that pales by comparison to the heart wrenching events for families being separated and dislocated.
Not often enough do we hear of the other casualties of conflict, these are the people with no voice, children and civilians, the list is endless.


I was very young, when on Sept 3 1939, the second world war broke out, of course we were all too young to really understand what this really meant. What it meant was a major change that would have drastic consequences for the rest of our lives. Because of the threat of bombing from the Germans, we were told that as a precaution most all children in the whole country would be evacuated. I realize now we were so lucky; in the sense that we were to be evacuated from Manchester to a place called Blackpool. This place was the seaside holiday resort of England, situated on the west coast.

Believe me it surely was a big adventure for little kids such as my brothers and I. Of course we did not realize the implications or the seriousness of the whole thing, but we would come to realize things pretty fast.


The departure from Manchester remains slightly vague in my mind. There was just so much confusion with all the milling around going on. Oh so many children in lines that stretched forever, five or six children wide. The trains in pre-war days were still in the old steam engine stage and as I remember it quite different from what we have today.


The thing that always stayed with me as a child was the sounds and smells of the trains engine as it went along. I know that today it may sound a little crazy but I used to love the smell of the steam the most and then there was the steam billowing out and towards the rear as the train moved along down the tracks. I remember opening the small side windows in the carriage. I had to stand on the seat to reach them, but that way I was able to stick my face close to the window and sniff this smell of the engine. There was no mistaking that aroma, for when you got a whiff you knew exactly what it was.

I remember walking down the railway platform at the Blackpool Central station, after we arrived, along with so many other kids. We all had to carry a little square light brown box that contained our gas masks. These were a general issue that everyone in the country had to carry at all times. We also had on our clothing a large name tag, so people could identify who was who. All the same we still just looked like packaged meat waiting to be shipped. ~ This was the first time I had ever seen the ocean, believe me it really took my breath away to see such an expanse of water with no land showing on the horizon.(It was a sight I would learn to enjoy for many years. As I grew older I would learn to love a walk along the promenade in the driving winds and rain.)


All of the evacuees were marshaled into an area and delegated onto buses. We were then dropped off at different houses in various parts of the town. To me being so young, it was a bit bewildering and frightening, yet a mixed feeling of so many emotions. It really did feel very strange, almost like a dream for as kids we didn't really know what was going on. I guess it could have been looked upon as the start of a big adventure but, there was something about it all that took the excitement away. Instead I was apprehensive and scared, which even then bothered me I guess. I think I was aware that I was the eldest and had to be strong. Unbelievable as it was, I was at that time a mere 6 years old. I knew my two younger brothers must have felt even more scared , just by the way they clutched at my hands and the youngest was crying incessantly. You learn as you are growing up; especially as you get older, that you as the eldest in a family with no father, somehow seem to assume that role and assist Mom at least that’s the way it went for me. I had to grow up fast for so many reasons.

We pulled up at a house in Ashburton Rd, then Mom and I went into the house. It was a huge big boarding house, run by an old couple. In the summer season it would normally be filled with holiday makers, right now it was an emergency dropping off point, and more families would be re-located shortly. I really couldn't understand why only I was being taken there; but the thought had to be at the back of my mind, for I was terrified at even the idea of being split up from my family.

Well that’s the way it turned out, strange how at times like that one can lose all sense of rhyme or reason and sheer panic sets in. Mom told me she trusted me to be good boy, as it would only be for a short time until more permanent housing could be found. With that she gave over my documents and ration books to the old couple, for while I was staying there they would be responsible for that kind of thing. They had to use my Ration book to augment their own material needs, after all they couldn’t be expected to use their own meager supplies to feed another hungry mouth. Maybe things weren’t that bad there after all.

To Be Cont'd Tomorrow!

C'ya

Reminiscing

For a change I had made supper, a large pot of chili. It turned out really good, and we were on our second helping. That’s what took me back to the days when there was hardly food, let alone seconds. My mind drifted lazily; I remember thinking of just how lucky I am, when the wife said “your food is getting cold, what are you thinking about?”



I was thinking of when I was a young child at a time when food was far from plentiful. I grew up in England prior to and through the 2nd World War years. I remember as a child of four, my mother with three kids and no father, for he had died in an accident when I was two. Times were very hard in those pre-war days and poverty was rampant everywhere.

Looking back now I often wonder how my mother ever managed the miracles she was able to do, in order to feed and raise us the way she did. Many times I can remember meals that consisted of a pot of homemade broth with ‘suet dumplings,’ and a thick slice of homemade bread, no butter or margarine. If we were really lucky, mom might have dug up a small tin of Tate & Lyle Golden syrup to put on the dumplings and that was the meal.


A snack for recess at school consisted most times of cold toast carefully wrapped in wax paper, there was no such thing as stretch n seal way back then. Times were so bad, there was no money for chocolate or candies.
My grandmother down the street would sometimes make homemade black treacle toffee for the kids in the neighborhood. She used to make it in a roasting tin, then when it was ready and cooled down Grandma would break it all up into pieces, then came the familiar yell to us all. That was always a real treat and a fight to see who could run there first and grab the biggest piece.


A short while later when the war had started, there came the evacuations of kids & families, also food and just about everything you could think of, became rationed. Every family had a ‘Gas Mask‘, an Identity card and a ‘Ration-book’ issued for each member of the family; the book contained coupons for almost everything basic that a person would need in order to survive. Believe me, it was totally inadequate and impossible to make ends meet at times, but at least you had some entitlements to work with. Once again mother had her work cut out, spinning all kinds of magic in order to be able to present edible meals.


Those were very bad days with poor nutrition among most all kids. This would often result in some ailment or another. I developed what they called ‘Rickets’ and was effected with very weak ankles. To be treated for that, I and lots of other kids with the same problem had to attend a clinic; there we had to strip right off down to the naughty nothings and don these very dark goggles to protect our eyes. Then we had to go into this room and walk around for what seemed like an hour, bathed in ultra-violet lighting. This room had a funny odor to it and felt reasonably warm, like being outside on a hot summers day. In addition, we also got extra concentrated orange juice and some containers of cod-liver oil and malt. Most of the kids hated that stuff, funnily enough I quite liked it.



Everything in those days seemed to come in packages. Dried egg powder instead of real eggs, something I didn’t mind if I remember correctly. You would mix it with water or a little dried milk powder then cook it like you would an omelet today. Most all things came as dried or in concentrated form, such as orange juice. Milk came dried in small packages, the only fresh milk was given to us at school each day and that was half a pint. Shortening and margarine was measured out in approx a teaspoon amount per person per day. Sugar and real eggs were also rationed along with whatever you might need to even make bread. There were even coupons for candies or sweets as they are called in the U.K. Mom used to trade off the candy coupons so she could get sugar instead, at least with the sugar she could make other things, like jam for instance. Clothing and boots or shoes were almost non existent for a lot of years with the war going on.

Later on when I was 10 years old, mom had now remarried, we had also acquired 17 chickens in the backyard. Even they had to be registered so that we could go buy corn feed for the chickens. Any eggs that were laid each day had to be turned over to the authorities as part of the war effort, it was the law, rarely did we get to keep an egg. Once in a while that did happen and it was a celebration just to have a fried or boiled egg. One time I remember we had one of the chickens killed off and that provided a feast I can tell you, of course that only happened that one time. We had no garden to grow any food, so mom and my step-dad had to go rent a small allotment (piece of garden) from some place just to try and grow a few things to supplement our food supplies and diet. Hard days those, very hard days; later as the war drew to an end and the rationing was eased a bit; then there was room to celebrate and of course a few of the chickens bit the dust!.


There were many, many stories came out of those times and not all had happy endings, you grew up in a hurry.
I will always remember England’s Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. Even as a child I had a lot of trust in that man. He steered England through those bad times and the war.

I sat there relating this to Elizabeth and she was so interested in my story. For not having experienced those times I reckon, it must have sounded to her like something from a fairytale and wondering just when the wicked Witch of the North would show up!

I sat and wondered, dare I even consider another bowl of chili!

Teas up! C’ya

Little Willie

I was surfing yesterday when I came across a picture that jogged my memory. The picture in question was that of what they termed a one man tank. It looked more like a metal bubble that had bicycle training wheels attached to it. If the old guys could have seen that it would have raised a real chuckle.

Let me proceed by first saying the picture above is of a Regimental Military Cap badge representative of the British Army ‘Royal Armoured Corps‘, and worn by all soldiers of the RTR. (Royal Tank Regiment’s) The Tank in the badge is called ‘Willie’ and below you see a life size picture of the real tank as used in the 1st World War. 1914 - 1918

They can be seen at a Tank museum and that is where I had the opportunity to go inside a ‘Willie’ as well as many other old Tanks. Surely a site to see.



This also, are two ‘Willie’ tanks in action with the 10th Hussars. WW1 1917

This link gives you more tanks and information over the following years.

http://www.geocities.com/pentagon/quarters/1975/wwi_tank.htm

As the years went by, it was a realization that the tank was here to stay and would play a prominent part in any future conflicts. So it was that the move was on to improve on what they already had right up to today/s most modern armored equipment . Would you believe that in modern warfare, the forecast life of a tank in action was only 10 seconds beyond that you were deemed lucky to survive it seems.

I myself spent a number of years in the army and served in the Tank corp. The modern ‘baby’ that I had in those days was known as the ‘Centurion’ a very good tank of the day which was used for a number of years, only to be replaced at a later date by the ‘Chieftain’ .

Even in peacetime, training was always very extensive with ongoing maneuvers in mock battle warfare, sometimes for eight weeks at a time. Believe me on those occasions you didn’t get too much respite. Some of these maneuvers were conducted with N.A.T.O. and those were really like war games. Every kind of situations were applied including the air force jets, so you really had to keep your head down and under camouflage so as not to have your tank detected from the air. The planes would use flour-bag’s to represent a bomb; of course if you were hit, that was the end of you for that days encounter. I can say that in the years I took part in the War Games I only ever got plonked once, and we were under camouflage netting at the time.

A few years later in the ‘real thing’ in Korea, I was fortunate & stayed safe.




The British Centurion Tank, used in the 1950’s for a number of years. (my baby)

http://www.tankmuseum.co.uk/collection.html


http://michiganhistorymagazine.com/extra/tanks/developing_the_tank.html


Well folks let us hope it works this time. C'ya