My mate Andy laughs
Because of a 15 year old boy
He sees inside me
Who makes too many
Risky decisions
And so a leap that ends in mud
Can become analagous
For middle age
Unsuccessfully evaded
Today I made this journey
Through the town where I was born
(But also in my head)
Along scruffy streets
Whose memories
Are monoblocked
Overshadowed by MacDonalds
Pretentious
Under new street furniture
And just underneath my skin
An adolescent
Squirms
We are back home.
Today we spent around 10 hours in the car- driving first to collect Emily from Tocaster, then driving back up to Scotland. The detour to collect Emily was enforced by the chaos caused to air transport by a few specs of dust…
I took the photo above of a sky clear of vapour trails- a rare event these days…
Yesterday was my father-in-law’s funeral. A rather harrowing day- but also full of rather unreal moments, even humourous ones.
One of Michaela’s many cousins following the funeral car on his BMX, with no apparent realisation that anything out of the ordinary was happening- shouting ‘Aunty Mary- that’s my Aunty Mary…‘
Conversations about all sorts of things that seem to be totally irrelevant to the matter in hand with people that I ought to recognise, but did not. People trying to fill the void with nervous trivia, which serves only as a wafer thin veil of British decorum. And I am partly grateful, whilst at the same time slightly scandalised.
A visit to the graveside later on to be alone and quiet, to discover that the grave next door is being visited by a family who brought their lunch, in the form of chips and mushy peas. One of them lays down their dinner at the foot of Roberts recently filled grave whilst they fiddle with a recently installed set of plastic flowers on the grave of their grandmother. I overhear them proudly describing how they light up at night.
And now I am home. I have almost forgotten what home is like- the last two weeks seem to have stretched over months.
Exhausted- I need to go to my bed (Ahhhh- BED!) but before I do that, I needed to download.
Yesterday I delivered the eulogy at the funeral. The church was packed with people standing outside too.
Robert was a man who had no firm faith- even though he asked questions. He would never see past the starving children and the earthquakes that bury whole villages. So dealing with the end of life, and comforting those around- this had a flavour that constantly brought me up against an inability to be fully open about my own hopes.
I did find a form of words that attempted to gather these things together. I said something like this-
…Today we may have many different ways of understanding what happens to us when we leave this earth.
For some, we live on only in the memories of those who loved us.
All the more reason for us all to cherish our memories of Robert today.
Many others (including me) have a hope that the story of life is not defeated by death.
A hope that there may yet be more laughter and loving and sharing and memories to make.
Death is close to us all.
May it be for us, the next great adventure.
But may there also be comfort and love and hope for those left behind…
I’ll not be blogging this week- we are still down south, helping prepare for Robert’s funeral- which is now fixed for Friday at 2.00, Pinxton Village Church.
Thanks again friends for your support…
Here are a few photo’s from Robert’s computer.
My father in law Robert passed away today.
A good man, gone on a new adventure.
We are all in shock, as despite his long illness, the end came so quickly.
He was a man of skilled hands.
And a soft heart.
Who knew the most precious thing in life to be- family.
We are all down in England, spending some time with family.
Michaela’s step father, Robert, is seriously ill in hospital after a second course of chemo-therapy for his leukemia. In the absence of any kind of immune system, he has pneumonia and so things are very scary at the moment. Thanks so much to all of you who are praying and wishing us well…
He is remarkably positive, but very tired.
I’ll let you know more as I know it…
So here we have a picture of a leaf cutter ant, taken on a recent visit to a zoo thingy. I missed the focus point, but you get the gist.
And I am sure that most of you will get the analogy all too readilly too.
These ants work non stop to cut up leaves, carry the bits back to their colony, and so make a big compost in order to allow more ants to hatch, grow and do the same.
Hmmm…
Michaela is away for the weekend to meet an old school friend in the Lake District. The kids and I needed an little adventure of our own and so I somewhat reluctantly agreed to a trip to an amusement park.
I am not a fan of these places. They are very expensive, and I usually feel rather depressed by the tacky pre-packaged fear-tainment- each step we take carefully ‘monetized’ (forgive the Americanism.)
They are all about noise, smelly fast food and rust-streaked mass manipulation and they offer a quick adrenaline buzz which is over in a flash of neon and a wave of nausea.
It is a far cry from the trips into empty wild places that I love so much- and try to inculcate into my children’s souls.
But to be honest, like most parents I am happiest when I have made my kids happy.
It was touch and go for a while. We arrived in a burst of excited chatter from the kids, and paid out the best part of £70 for tickets then walked around the park as the rides opened deciding what seemed possible and what we would avoid at all costs.
We all had such different thresholds. Emily would go on most things, me on a few- Will became increasingly quiet, and I knew that his world was getting smaller.
And so in this rather dreadful modern excuse for living fuller and more present lives, we all began a kind of journey.
Emily went on almost every ride- daring herself towards the extreme. There was also a reptile house, and she overcame her fear of spiders and held a Tarantula.
I too was banged and crashed around on roller coasters, and soaked on log flumes and water chutes.
But the greatest journey was made by William.
William is at his happiest when with his friends in the forest with a stick and a head full of pokemania. He is comfortable with what is known and understood and has little interest in what lies beyond this. So standing before a huge Ferris wheel, or a plunging water slide, or even a roller coaster aimed at little kids-he was transfixed with fear, and no amount of persuasion or encouragement would force him forward.
Emily was great, and took him on some little rides. He had a go on trampolines and crazy golf. But he was not happy. When I pushed him a little too hard, he wept into my shoulder.
So began a long conversation about how life was full of things that will shrink us down into ever smaller boxes- and how the only way to deal with fear was to face it and take some small steps into the danger zone. And how we often find that when we do the the fear itself retreats and new things become possible.
And there in that artificial and rather unpleasant space, that is just what happened to Will. After a gulp he decided to go for the big scary Ferris wheel. He was visibly shaking- holding every muscle rigid, but still he climbed into the cage…
And the old magic happened. As we are exposed to fear, our autonomic nervous systems fire into fight or flight mode- thoughts become hyper focused and instinctive, blood flows to muscles, breathing becomes shallow and quick. We become totally pre-occupied with making the fear go away– and making the symptoms of the fear go away too. But for most of the time (particularly when the risk is measured or even unreasonable) if we stay in the moment- face up to the fear but act anyway- then we find that over a few minutes (around 5-20 mins) the fear tails away, and the most primitive part of ourselves recalibrates to view this action as ‘safe’.
In this way, like the ripples made by a stone on still water, we expand.
Alternatively, if we avoid the fear then not only does this unlearning fail to happen, but actually we are likely to entrench the autonomic response still further. In some cases, the fear then encroaches on other areas of life like a kind of psychological gangrene.
Fear of falling then may extend to ladders, to tall buildings, to airplanes, to staircases.
In some cases, mixed with the right amount of vulnerability and damaging childhood experience, these fears make us a prisoner in our own bodies. They stop us coming out of our protective huddles- sometimes they stop people leaving their front doors.
It is kind of easy to visualise the fears of childhood- but so much more difficult to understand and unlock the fears that hold us as adults. I am reminded of that point where Jesus sends out his followers in twos to declare the New Kingdom in acts of healing and deliverance- and when some demons prove to be beyond them, he says that some only are over come by prayer and fasting. It is almost as if he is saying- there are no magical answers to this kind of freedom- it requires work.
Yesterday Williams faced up to his fear- and stood on top of his own mountain. And I was so proud of him.
May we stand on ours.
Because it is for FREEDOM that we are set free.
There has been trauma in our house.
William has a fish tank, in which have lived two goldfish for the last four or five years. He has long had a desire to get more fish, and in particular, some mountain minnows to share the tank with the goldfish. We could never find anyone who sold them though.
However, at the weekend, we discovered that out local pet shop had them in stock- probably in no small part due to his regular request. So we bought 4 of the little things, and carried them carefully home and plopped them into their new home.
William gave them each a name.
But later that day, there were only 3 left in the tank. We held our breath, but Will was quite philosophical; ” Ah well, we can’t let these things upset us too much…” he then he stood stiffly before the tank and said ” But Qwerty- know this, you will always be remembered…”
And indeed he would have been. But then there were two.
And then one.
Then none.
And two rather bulging goldfish (whose names by the way are Jaws and Mako.)
Bless him, Will was very upset for a couple of days. We reasoned that this was one of those learning experiences that we all go through in which we encounter some of the hard realities of life. Despite the insulation we would parents seek to provide for all our beautiful kids as they grow into this cruel world.
A life where small fish are always prey to the bigger ones. And they in turn are on the menu of even bigger ones, and it all might just end badly…
All the way up to the top of the food chain- and then up the socio-economic ladder for our own human cannibalistic big fish.
Except this is not a lesson I want William to have to learn. I still hope for a world where small fish swim free, and Nemo finds his way back to his father. A world where small is beautiful and survival is not just for the fittest.
Alas this was not to be the fate of Qwerty and his brethren…
Will and I have a long running rivalry in the form of one on one cricket challenge. In the winter this takes the form of a game in our hallway, with resultant danger for ornaments, décor and the odd passer by on their way from living room to kitchen.
But today the weather was wonderful, and the light was still playable (at least for us, but perhaps not for those wimpy professionals) until almost 6.30pm. It was 11 degrees centigrade here today, with bright sunshine and a whiff of spring in the air.
(The photo above was taken in France though- it is not quite shorts weather yet.)
Today we tried out our new ‘nets’- the first bowl on the (experimental but soon to be adopted by grounds everywhere) block paved driveway.
The rules are like this- I have to get him out (caught or bowled) three times, but he only has to get me once. We use an assortment of balls- basically anything that has not already disappeared into the far distance.
Some of you will doubt our sanity- because for you, the joys of cricket have been obscured by prejudice.
But for me, this simple pleasure is full of pure joy- for these reasons…
The coming spring after a long cold winter.
Being with my boy.
The whiff of competition (particularly as I can still hold my own against a 9 year old!)
And the shape given to body and mind by that most noble of pass times- cricket.
The sound of bat on ball and the glory of a ball sailing high in the direction of the Clyde.
The occasional perfection of the perfect leg break as it turns through the gate and smashes into the stumps.
And they dare to call this a waste of time? I intend to play for eternity when I get to heaven…
I listened to a discussion on Thinking Allowed on radio 4 today about the role of comedy in racism, and anti-racism. It reminded me again of something close to home.
I have written previously about this rock, known as ‘Jim Crow’ which is across the road from where I live-
Photo by Scott Adams- http://www.flickr.com/photos/10021898@N02/797575782/in/photostream
The history of the rock is the subject of much debate- some of my friends who are local to Dunoon feel protective of it as a local landmark- it has been decorated in this way for well over 100 years, and is one of those local features that people remember, and celebrate, from childhood.
It has been suggested that the rock was so named after a garage owned by Jim Crow in the vicinity, although I know someone who has done some research in the public records and can find no sign of such a business, or of a person with that name.
In my earlier post, I pointed out the link with a tradition that emerged in another place- the ‘Minstrel shows’ of 19th Century America, in which ‘Jim Crow’ was a negative caricature of a black man. The words ‘Jim Crow’ became an insult that was used alongside other offensive words like ‘Nigger’ and ‘Coon’. It also became a catch-all phrase for a set of segregation laws adopted by states across the USA that were oppressive and amounted to state sponsored rascism- the Jim Crow Laws.
The question remains however as to why a rock came to be decorated in this way in a sleepy little seaside town on the West Coast of Scotland?
I think the answer lies in the incredible popularity of the minstrel shows, and the wave of songs and dances that captured popular imagination at the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th Centuries. Quite why this form of entertainment became so popular is difficult for us to understand from a post modern perspective. It was carried along by a new beat and verve brought by ragtime music and cakewalk rhythms but perhaps also by a rather more sinister human characteristic- the need to look down upon, or even demonise the other.
‘Coon songs‘ sung either by black performers, or more often, white men with black painted faces, were incredibly popular. Some of these songs sold millions of copies of sheet music all over the world.
The Coon songs were performed in popular shows wherever entertainment was required- particularly in mass holiday destinations- like 19th Century Dunoon, at the height of the age of steamers on the Clyde. According to an entry on Wikipedia, this is what they were all about-
Coon songs’ defining characteristic, however, was their caricature of African Americans. In keeping with the older minstrel image of blacks, coon songs often featured “watermelon- and chicken-loving rural buffoon[s].”[14] However, “blacks began to appear as not only ignorant and indolent, but also devoid of honesty or personal honor, given to drunkenness and gambling, utterly without ambition, sensuous, libidinous, even lascivious.”[14] Blacks were portrayed as making money through gambling, theft, and hustling, rather than working to earn a living,[14] as in the Nathan Bivins song “Gimme Ma Money”:
Last night I did go to a big Crap game,
How dem coons did gamble wuz a sin and a shame…
I’m gambling for my Sadie,
Cause she’s my lady,
I’m a hustling coon, … dat’s just what I am.[15]
Towards the end of the era of Coon songs, it seems that people began to object to the racism at the heart of the formulae. There is also some evidence that black performers began to subvert the songs by turning some of the humour back at the white listeners. Laurie Taylor, as part of the discussion on the radio today placed these songs in a longer line of black comedy, including Richard Pryor and Chris Rock, who use humour to confront their audience with the narrow stereotypes they might otherwise regard as acceptable. However, there also appears to be a danger in this form of activism, as in some ways it gives permission to air these views.
There was also an interesting point about how certain popular performers can be seen ‘exceptions’ to a more wider prejudicial view. In this way, they confirm the stereotype as much as they confront it.
Richard Pryor stopped making jokes using the word ‘Nigger’- here he is (WARNING– as ever, his language is a bit fruity.)
Back to the rock.
I had previously suggested that I would like to see it redecorated.
I certainly would still like to see more local knowledge of the tradition that this rock comes from, as I think we always need to learn the lessons of history, lest we repeat the mistakes again.
Lest we find a new section of the population to demonise.
this fragile tent 