From the bookshelves 80

     Am I in a morbid mood? Another book about events which should not be erased from from the collective memory. And yet . . . Pol Pot, Dafur, Sadam, Sarajevo . . . ? Read also: The Periodic Table, If this Is a Man and The Truce.

Kathy and Mum . . .

    Mum's inimitable smile recorded at her 50th wedding anniversary dinner 6 September 1988. The picture is grainy because it is scanned and enlarged from a 110 snapshot and I think it wasn't in focus to begin with. Don't some memories become a little out of focus and grainy with the passage of time?

    Why am I posting this picture? To compare to the picture near the beginning of this meandering blog . . . or to see Kathy with short hair?

    My sister made arrangements for a small family affair at a restaurant in Earls Colne; the restuarant closed that day to begin renovations, something that had escaped the owners notice when the reservation was made, so we ended up having the restaurant and staff to ourselves.

My century plus one

A few years ago several people listed 101 things about themselves. The idea may be ready for a little revival.

I started worrying that I don't have much to say about myself at the moment. I wondered what relevance noting what I have done in the past has to do with who I am now. I was thinking categories: physical characteristics, likes, dislikes, recreations, vocations for example. I think I just need to make a list , one of many possible lists . . . this might take a few days.

1. I have acted in amateur community theatre productions.
2. I practise playing various musical instruments.
3. I have short legs and a long back in proportion to my height, otherwise known as a short arse.
4. I weigh 12st 12lbs or 180lbs. Don't ask me what that is in kilos.
5. I like to read - almost anything including cereal boxes.
   
6. I hate repeatedly starting sentences with the first person singular.
7. Blue is usually my favourite colour.
   
   

Breaking the 11th Scout Law

I don't know if there are still ten Scout laws; the eleventh was unwritten.

I keep browsing through the b-LOGOS-sphere. I spelled it with two Gs in a previous post . . . the sphere of a Mr A. Blogg. So many fresh and brand spanking new blogs.

I follow many anonymously. I made the mistake of commenting on a blog which was well written, was public and had a few public followers; I was quite surprised when the author tore me off a strip for lurking and promptly made the blog private. Live and learn.

That was then; this is now. I'm still very silent.

An overcoat? In August?

Kelvedon village fête at St Mary's Road 14 August 1957.

My only recollection of that day is that it was the first time I heard my recorded voice.
The vehicle, an Austin I believe, was green.

Metamorphosis

    No, I'm not turning into an insect . . . I didn't want to miss a day. I'm still finding my way. I reviewed this blog from the beginning and note how it is changing direction. I'm not sure if that is through the influence of other posts I've read or just the way I am. What I had intended was a rather introverted look at all the parts of my life. I could look at it chronologically. Various ideas I've had is to choose a vivid memory of each year of my life and relate that to what was going on in the world. I know some early memories have been suggested to me by my sister or by photographs. I have one somewhere of me sitting on top of a chicken coop that used to be at the top of the garden when we first moved to Kelvedon from Oxford in about 1952. I remember the dungarees I was wearing were green. I remember brown corduroy leggings I wore when dad took me for rides on his bike. I sat on a seat fixed to the cross-bar. I put my hands under his to keep them warm.

    I told the story of my visit to England. I travelled a little bit here, up to Colorado and New Mexico in May. Then I started taking pictures of some of the books which surround me here in this little room. I don't write about what is in the books. I spend a lot of time reading; but much of the reading is like chewing gum, I'm not really concentrating on what I'm reading. As you might tell from the books they are very much reading copies and I tend to read quite a bit of fiction.

Memory - stub

"The boy stood on the burning deck . . . " but I was standing on a chair and it wasn't burning; I was on fire with shame and embarrassment. Was this a punishment of some kind or was the class set an assignment to each tell a story to the class? I can't remember. What I can remember is that prickling sensation of panic rising up my legs to my reddening face as I squirmed thinking desparately of what to say.

Australia was a fascination for us then what with the £10 assisted passage for emigrés to that land, The Flying Doctor series on the wireless and learning about the peculiar animals of the outback, including the wallaby, duck billed platypuss and wombat. What a lovely word: wombat; I wandered what the animal looked like. I'd listened to a tale about a wombat on the wireless a few days before. What little television I saw was at friends' houses; I knew none of my contemporaries listened to the wireless so I retold the tale of the wombat escaping a bush fire . . . knowing it would be fresh for them. And thereby I esaped burning embarrassment.

Could do better

In 2002 Pocket Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, Published a little book subtitled School Reports of the Great and Good. Whilst I do not count myself among the Great I think I am fairly good. That first report at the top of the post shows that I still came top of a class of thirty-eight scoring only 73% overall when in the previous report I'd scored 81% overall. I don't think the standard of the class as a whole could have been very high. The report below is from a time when I was advanced a class early. Note that I am six months younger than the average in a class of forty-two. I'm an autumn baby and most of my class mates were born in the spring; the following year the situation is reversed. What has this to do with seeking episteme or finding myself or knowing who I am? The Jesuits said some thing like show me a boy of seven and I will show you the man. A series of documentary films was made beginning in 1964 with a group of seven years olds to illustrate the Jesuit idea. Subsequent films were made with the same children at 14, 21, 28, 35, 42 and finally I believe 49. Looking at my old reports several consistent traits are apparent: I'm easily distracted from my work; I'm interested in history and geography; I try hard but am often careless (especially with handwriting and spelling); I show great promise . . . but my self esteem received a severe blow when I did not achieve the 11+ result expected of me.  I'm still working on the shows promise bit.