|Me on my family estate (he lied, shamelessly) around 1988 or '89|
As we grow up and pass through the different, inevitable
'chapters' of our lives - like infancy, childhood, teenage years, young
adulthood, etc., - we do so unselfconsciously, 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, natural-
ly) 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
Sliding down slippery slopes on sledges my father had built was an-
other boyhood joy, with the spray from the snow splattering our faces
suicidal intent. I named 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 from arounnd 1978 - or|
perhaps even 1980. That's my sledge leaning against our dog
Tara's kennel on my left
their children is to decide, in their absence and without consultation,
to dispose of 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 still lives in your childhood home, perhaps
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 child-
hood 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
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 my-
self. 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,
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 child-
hood and am suddenly beset by a feeling that they belong elsewhere, and
seem curiously out of place. One item recalls one house to memory, an-
other summons forth recollections of a different one. Mostly, such me-
mentos afford me a great deal of comfort and pleasure, but, occasion-
ally, 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
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 others. Is the past, to
you, not only a foreign country, but also a forgotten one? Or, like me, do
you always try 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.