A Time Not Forgotten

I had the great pleasure of spending the bulk of the weekend with my auntie Mary and uncle Nick at their home in Kent. Every time I drive down to Kent I'm reminded of long summer weekends when I was a kid, picking apples, and running up and down the big hill at the end of the road where my auntie Mary used to live. My cousin Claire and I were too scared to go right to the top for fear of something awful happening to us. Kids are strange, aren't they!? 

Anyway.

On Saturday evening we had the pleasure of watching some of her old cine film that she has had restored and recorded to DVD. I'm not usually one to harp on about yesterday, nor do I really see the past through rose tinted spectacles, mainly because in my day to day life it's rarely at the forefront of my mind. There's always something that needs doing, a place to go, or some other distraction that keeps memories, both good and bad, at the back of my mind.

Auntie Mary's son, Paul, was taken from us a couple of years ago in a motorcycle accident. He really was snuffed out in an instant, right in the prime of his life, and just when he had so very much to be happy about. We loved Paul for lots of reasons, and my abiding memories of him are many: How he always had time to talk, his capacity to make me laugh, and how he always came across as being so happy and carefree. Paul was fantastic in so many ways that to try and form some list would be futile. Either way he was, and remains, so much more than just a list. It's not as though I saw him all that often, or even that we shared all that much in common, but not only was he was a truly lovely bloke, he was my cousin, and we all loved him very much.

Obviously, moving images of Paul as a little boy were a major part of auntie Mary's film, memories from a long time past that are now committed to film forever, a poignant reminder of many yesterdays and a time that we can never have back. It's not a difficult or a morbid thing to watch - Paul was doing what kids do, playing with his sister, Nina, in the snow or at the beach or the zoo. Messing around on a tractor, or toddling around the garden with my brothers and our other cousins.

Along with Paul, there are other family members who've shaped my life, and helped me along the way. People who, like Paul,  are no longer here, but who were also on the film. My lovely old nan, my dad, and my uncle Alan. We watched them all intently, wishing and longing for them all to be here still. The film allowed us, just for a few seconds at a time, to see the people that as a family we've lost along the way in a way that we would most like remember them; alive and well, smiling, and having a good time. As I said before, watching it is neither difficult nor morbid, and white it is unquestionably sad that these people are no longer with us to enjoy the memories they helped to create, it must be almost impossible for my auntie Mary to accept that Paul in particular is no longer here to share in them. I for one have no idea how she has managed to deal with Paul's tragic death, at the same time had some some quite serious health issues, and managed to remain essentially the same auntie Mary I know and love, but I'm certain there's a lesson to be learned from her stoicism and perseverence. I like to think she's superhuman.

The feeling I got while watching these films, these fleeting moments from a bygone time, was how none of the subjects of the camera's shaky glare could possibly have known what was mapped out for them. What plans were already set out? While in bed I laid awake for a while thinking about it, feeling quite sombre, missing each of them and asking myself questions that quite simply don't have answers. My mind continually returned to the film, I wondered if perhaps it would have been better that I hadn't seen it. Would my mind have been better left undisturbed? Regardless, the images seemed to reappear each time I closed my eyes as if they had been indelibly imprinted on some part of my subconscious.

How differently I feel now. While no one likes to feel the pain of loss or the memories it brings back to the surface, the fact remains that there are things that not even the human brain is capable of recreating or recapturing perfectly. Everyone knows that memories are imperfect. We don't really remember everything as well as we'd like to think. For some people not being able to remember is something almost impossible to bear. The way that a smile creeps across a face. The gamut of facial expressions that we try so hard to remember, but never truly can. Mannerisms, a certain gait, or the intensity of colours all remain, but seem faded in our minds, lost somewhere in the mists of time.

It remains sad, and it always will, that Paul, nan, my dad, and my uncle Alan aren't here any more to share in our memories. What we remember of them, and how much we cared, and still care about them mustn't ever be underestimated. They each were, and remain, a part of our lives that can't be erased and will not be forgotten. What my auntie Mary has isn't just some old sun bleached, faded, shaky cine film. It's a record of real people who loved us as we still love them, and their moving images make their memory even more tangible. 

What is now abundantly clear to me is how much worse off we would be as a family if we didn't have a gentle reminder that in some way, no matter how small, they're still here.

My Dad Was Cool

I was 14 when he died in 1992.

When I was 14, anyone in their 50's was ancient.  My dad was 54, and now I recognise that 54 really is no age.

I just wanted to put something on here because we often laugh about my dad's little failings and foibles. We chuckle because he could be abrasive to the point of being amusing.  I remember his bluntness, and how it could be hurtful sometimes. I remember how he said exactly what he thought - and bugger the consequences. ( Don't know where I get that from?) 

I was thinking to myself... We remember these things because we've each inherited them in some way.  My sister, Lesley, is capable of giving you the same look as he did, and makes me laugh in the same way my dad did.

My brother, Graeme, has my dad's stoicism and sharpness of tongue. He even sounds a little bit like him, sometimes.

Mark inherited my dad's quietness, and the wisdom to know that sometimes it's better to listen than speak.

Andy forever holds dad in the highest esteem, and despite their differences, grew to love him and have the utmost respect for him. 

Sometimes I think all of us are little unfair towards dad, so just for little while, I'm going to defend him, because he was quite cool after all. (Despite his penchant for bad swimming trunks).

He liked The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Who, and The Kinks. He liked Nat 'King' Cole, Jim Reeves, Roger Miller, and Dean Martin. He liked Kevin 'Bloody' Wilson, and the Fureys.

He watched Fawlty Towers, Monty Python, and 'Allo 'Allo.  He supported Luton Town Football Club.  He liked to watch Golf on the telly and laughed at Peter Alliss' commentary. He used to let me stay up late on a Wednesday to watch Sportsnight. 

He made the best potato cakes in the history of the universe.

He liked cough candy and blackcurrant and liquorice boiled sweets, and he'd eat them until his tongue was sore.

He took me to Cornwall, Scotland, Spain (twice), Ireland, Florida, France, The Lake District, Hatfield House, Kentwell Hall, Blenheim Palace, Lavenham, Portsmouth, HMS Belfast, The Cutty Sark, Cheddar Gorge, Tower of London, Houses of Parliament, London Dungeon, Farnborough Air Show, Hendon RAF Museum......  I'd be here all night if I listed all the places he's taken me.

He took me sledding when it snowed. He tried to teach me how to play golf. He played cricket with me.  He was a capable golfer himself.  He worked hard and made sure that I never wanted for anything.  He took care of my mum. He had a cracking sense of humour. He liked reading, and furthering his knowledge.  He took me to Harrow Model Shop and bought me a model yacht that we sailed together at Rickmansworth Aquadrome.
He used to drive fast over the bridge on Batchworth Lane in Northwood because it made my tummy go funny.

He taught me that one can never read enough.  He showed me that I should learn for myself the things I haven't been taught.


I'd give anything to spend a night in the pub with my dad, enjoying a pint together. And that is truly the only missing memory.


But before you think I'm a morbid old sod, I'm eternally proud of my dad, and despite him being a cranky bugger at times, there are genuinely no truly bad memories.  I know that we all miss him terribly.


And it's true.  My dad was cool.