One of the odd things I've noticed about myself as I get older is that my sense of distance is greater, and that places seem farther away from me than they once used to. I don't mean visually, but geographically. For example, the environs of my old neighbourhood once seemed, in my subconscious mind, to be so close that if I looked out of my window, there they would be for me to gaze upon as though I actually still lived there.
This feeling was no doubt made more acute by the fact that, when I first moved from my previous abode, I returned every weekday to attend the school across from my former home. After school, once I'd had my tea, I would visit pals in the area and, truth to tell, I was along there so often that it probably never quite registered that I no longer lived there and was merely a visitor.
The distance between the two neighbourhoods seemed practically non-existent back then, and, to me, was no greater walk than the local shops at the end of my street. It was the same with most locales I was familiar with - they seemed no farther away than the time it took me to think of them. My house was like the TARDIS - outside its doors was any location I wanted to visit. All I had to do was walk through them and I'd be there.
Nowadays my perceptions are strangely different. My old neighbourhood seems as distant as MORDOR, and a lifetime away to reach. What was once a brief walk now stretches before me like an arduous trek from which I may not return. Whereas I never before felt far removed from any familiar childhood place, I now feel remote and isolated from them, and they seem to be as difficult to reach as the fabled BRIGADOON.
I suppose that's as good a definition of 'over the hill' as it's possible to get. Funny how I never before realised how literal a description of advancing years it actually is. When you're over the hill, once-familiar 'places' on the other side are far more difficult to access - and it's an uphill struggle to even attempt the task.
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"Ah, sweet boyhood, how eager are we as boys to be quit of thee, with what regret do we look back on thee before our man's race is half-way run!" J. Meade Falkner.
"After school, once I'd had my tea..."
ReplyDeleteKid, my father once asked me: "What is this word 'tea'? In Scotland we say dinner" and indeed he always spoke of lunch and dinner but never tea.
I can only assume that it varied in different parts of Scotland, CJ. In our house, teatime was usually around 5 o'clock in the evening, and suppertime was just before you went to bed. I always supposed that lunchtime and dinnertime were synonymous for the 12-noon meal, though I know some people make a distinction. However, schools called their halls dinner halls, not lunch halls.
ReplyDeleteI should add that teatime was a light meal and suppertime was perhaps a sandwich or a bit of toast and a cuppa.
ReplyDeleteFor me it was "dinner time" but in relation to that I would also at times say I've had my tea or been told " yer teas oot" a very different use of the word "tea"
ReplyDeleteMy previous neighbourhoods were physically a bit far away as I didn't stay in the same town when we moved house. However I have recently visited a few of my old childhood towns I used to live in and all have changed "physically" to greater or lesser degrees an none have a feeling of "home" now so I think I know what you mean.
That's one of the other sad things about old neighbourhoods, McS - the changes that have occurred over the years to make them not quite the places I knew when I lived there. However, usually enough remains as it was to perpetuate the illusion - if I half close my eyes and squint a bit.
ReplyDeleteAs a Southerner from Hampshire, the evening light meal (perhaps a round of sandwich and a slice of cake) was "tea", and supper was something before bed, in my case a slice of toast and a glass of milk. Lunchtime was Dinnertime. So very similar to your experience, Kid.
ReplyDeleteNot living anywhere close to where I grew up in Pompey, I have limited opportunity to visit the neighbourhood of my youth. That said, I spent a very enjoyable couple of hours wandering around Southsea last month accompanied by two old friends who I've known since they were 7 and 11 respectively, and I think we all enjoyed the walk. I find the reassurance of shared memories is a comfort to know that my parents reside in their mind as well as my own. Hope that makes sense.
I remember, a few years ago, a pal mentioning a ruby-glazed figure I made in art class at school circa 1970/'71. I probably only had it for two or three years and I thought I'd be the only person who remembered its short existence, so I was surprised when this friend referred to it quite out of the blue one day. It was nice to know that it hadn't been forgotten, even if he was the only other person in existence who recalled the item. So, yes, not exactly the same thing as a wander around boyhood haunts, but I know what you mean about the comfort of shared memories.
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