One Bonfire Night : Recollections of a small boy

November 5th --- Bonfire Night! Guy Fawkes, and all that. What a time it was when I was a boy! For weeks before the event our little gang would gather wood for the fire, begging and borrowing it from local shopkeepers and gleaning the local area far afield, all in order to ensure that our bonfire would be the biggest around.

Of course, in addition to all of the combustible material that we could collect and store, we also went on forays into 'enemy territory' to try and relocate material from other bonfires and establish it as our own. This was quite a dangerous operation, as there would usually be someone either directly on guard or else watching from a safe distance, ready to identify the culprits to his fellow bonfire-builders. If you were caught on a raid the result would usually be that your own bonfire would be decimated before you knew it, and so this kept the forays into enemy territory down to a minimum.

Of course, everyone hoped that it would be dry on the night, and it often was --- at least as far as my memory serves me. When I was a boy it got dark about five o'clock, and once darkness had settled the excitement of the coming celebration was tangible in the air, like the static buzz around a pylon on a summer day. The collection of fireworks had been counted and admired over and over, each one with the conviction that it would provide more gasps of wonder than ever before. One of the 'grown-ups' had carefully checked the base of the bonfire to ensure that there were no hedgehogs hibernating there amongst the leaves and twigs, and a supply of dry newspaper was ready to be taken out when it was time to light the fire.

The aim was to light the fire at six-thirty, but we usually persuaded the adults who lit ours to perform the task closer to six o'clock. Looking back, I guess that it was easier to do that than have a gang of children whining and complaining!

The crumpled sheets of newspaper were thrust into various places around the base and also a couple of feet up in the fire, and then came the magical moment when a flaming torch would be lit then thrust into the fire to ignite the paper. When the run-up to November 5th had been rain-free, and the bonfire material was tinder-dry, it was a matter of seconds before the dark looming pile became a burning pyre to the collection of old clothes, stuffed with straw and newspaper and with a cardboard mask, all of which passed as our 'Guy Fawkes.' For several days before several of us small boys had carted the guy around the streets, begging 'Penny-for-the guy' from friendly strangers, the resultant collection being used to purchase a few more fireworks.

It was a very special time as we gathered around the fire, our cheeks turning red in the cold night air as the flames soared upwards into the night sky, lighting up the trees at the far end of the paddock where we had built the fire. The air was filled with tiny sparks as the wood crackled and popped under the fiery onslaught of the flames. We watched as items of broken furniture were engulfed in flame, their outline remaining for a while until, with a final shudder, they fell apart as nothing more than ash, taking with them the memories of folk who had once treasured them as prize possessions.

My mother had given us potatoes to place in the hot ash around the edge of the fire, and we watched them turn black as they were cooked though, before carefully rolling them out onto the surrounding grass with a stout stick, allowing the potatoes to cool down a little before breaking them open and eating them. As you ate them so a ring of charcoal would often form on your mouth as the burnt skins marked your face.

Soon the main thrust of the fire had died down, leaving a pile of ash that was white hot in the centre, gradually becoming grey at the outer edges. It would still be hot the following morning, provided that the rain had held off throughout the night, and so it became a source of pleasure for many a small boy the following morning to try and poke a few sticks into the ash and bring it all to life once more.

We had watched the fireworks, lit by the appointed adult, and we had 'Oohed! and Aahed!' as the colour sparks of fire exploded from fireworks with names like 'Mount Vesuvius' or 'Roman Candle', and we had watched the rockets soaring into the night sky until they went from our sight, only to reappear in a trail of coloured sparks. We had been allowed to hold sparklers and duly waved them in circles to create rings of light. The fire had been, as it always was, the most amazing feature of all.

What a magical time it all was! What memories we would all keep as we looked forward to repeating it the following year. Even today, almost sixty years hence, I still recall the thrill of those bonfire nights.

One Summer's Day : Recollections of a small boy

     There is an air of great excitement about the day, an excitement that every small child would feel in a similar situation, for today would be the start of the family's annual holiday in Bournemouth. To be honest, it was not always in Bournemouth itself, because we often stayed in Boscombe, which is right next door. I think that I actually preferred Boscombe with its very own pier, although the pier was never as elegant as the neighbouring one. Much later in life, when I had grown up and entered the life working world, I went to live in Boscombe in a flat on the Christchurch Road, but that belongs to another story.
       Anyway, here I was, getting out of bed early without the need to be cajoled or threatened into doing so, with a thousand thoughts and questions going round in my head. I was remembering other years and other holidays, savouring the memories as if they had occurred only yesterday. I recalled friends that I had made in previous years and wondered, as I always did, whether I would meet any of them again. Alas, seaside friendships are a little like holiday romances, simply a convenient means of making the time more enjoyable, only to be discarded once normal home life resumed, and of course I never did meet up with anyone from previous years. Not a problem, because there were new friendships to be made, and I just knew that there would be someone waiting to be my inseparable friend already at our destination.
     We lived in a large house, and downstairs was already a hive of activity as the early breakfast was being organised, only to be eaten as quickly as possible in case it delayed the start of the big adventure. In reality of course, there was a timetable to adhere to, and so rushing through breakfast made no difference at all. Once the table was cleared away and the utensils washed, dried and carefully tidied away, the last bits and pieces of packing were completed before the suitcases finally got carried down the stairs to await the arrival of the car with Mr Buckle, resplendent in his chauffeur's hat and dark suit.
     Once the car arrived the luggage was loaded into the boot first of all, and then we children were ushered into the back under the watchful eyes of my father. I should say, "under the watchful eye of my father", because he only had one good eye having been blinded in his right eye during the war years. Mind you, the one good eye never missed anything! Once we were all in and settled down as much as possible under the circumstances, my mother was established in the front seat next to Mt Buckle from where she could keep an eye on the speedometer. If she felt that we were travelling too fast then she would say quietly but firmly, "Slow down please, remember there are children on board." The real reason of course, was that she was afraid to go over fifty miles an hour, and preferred to be slower than that if possible. 
     It was about ninety miles to our destination, and the journey would take about four hours, allowing for stops on the way to deal with children who were sick or who wanted to go to the toilet. It was a somewhat fraught time for all in many ways. As children, all we wanted to do was arrive and get onto the beach as quickly as possible, feeling the warm sand between our toes. We tried to make the journey go by a little quicker by involving ourselves in childhood --- and often childish --- games, playing 'I-Spy' until we were fed up with it, and dropped out one-by-one. We also, to my father's annoyance, used to sing a song about cows, dreaming up cows of every colour and shape, repeating it over and over until finally ordered to be quiet. Looking back on those journeys I realise how long-suffering Mr Buckle must have been!
      After what seemed to be more hours than the day had to offer, we duly arrived at the hotel which we would call 'home' for the following two weeks, all of us piling out of the car and glad to have the opportunity to stretch our limbs and breathe in the first hints of seaside air with it's slight salty and seaweedy tang. Well, at least I thought that it was like that. Almost immediately, we children began to beg to be allowed to go to the beach, as though we were only to be there for a few precious hours and didn't want to waste a minute. Not that it did anything more than further annoy the parents, already stressed by the long journey. The suitcases were duly unloaded from the boot and carried in to the hotel and Mr Buckle waved off, not to be encountered until our fortnight by the sea was at an end.
     We were quickly booked in and shown to our rooms, and my parents began to concentrate on unpacking the cases whilst the rest of us milled around begging to be allowed to go and explore this new territory. Eventually, with my older sister tasked with keeping a watchful eye on us, I and my other sister were allowed to go off to explore, my mother's warnings not to go too far soon to be forgotten in the excitement. 
     The holiday had now begun in earnest! After a cursory glance around the hotel gardens off we went, crossing the road and trotting off down Sea Road to the greatest prize of all --- the beach! So, some thirty minutes or so after our arrival at Boscombe, there we were on the golden sand. It was as exotic a location as it was possible to be, far removed from the countryside that we were used to using as our playground, and we were determined to make the most of it. We would stay on the beach too long and be told off once we arrived back in the hotel, but that seemed of little consequence in comparison to the joy of wiggling toes in the fine, warm sand. I remember that one year in particular we stayed on the beach so long that by the time we returned to the hotel we were sunburned to the extent that we looked more like freshly boiled lobsters than children, and we had to have liberal amounts of calamine lotion smeared over our red limbs. The worst thing was going to bed at night because lying down was even more painful. 
     So began the great adventure that was our annual holiday, when the days seemed to last twice as long and it was always a tired child who finally sank into a dreaming slumber at the end of them. After the first week had drawn to a close it seemed for a while that we had lived there for ever, but as the second week progressed the days seemed to get shorter, rushing by with undue haste until the Saturday arrived and we were all packed up, waiting in the hotel lounge for the arrival of Mr Buckle and the long journey home. It was a much quieter journey than before, all of us sad to to leave the holiday behind, and certainly some dreaming already of the next year when it would happen all over again. In the meantime there would be much to do once we arrived back home in more familiar territory, although we would have the memories of the experience with us for ever. 

Ein Weihnachtsmorgen: Erinnerungen eines kleinen Jungen.

Barfuß und aufgeregt ging ich aus der gemütlichen Wärme meines Bettes auf dem kalten Linoleum heraus, das sich auf der anderen Seite von meinem Schlafzimmerboden dehnte, meinen Augen, die sich schnell ans halbe-Licht vom Zimmer anpassen, das der Riß in der Tür erlaubte. Jeder Tag begeisterte dann noch mehr zu mir, als es jetzt ist, und jeder neue Tag brachte die Möglichkeit von frisch damit, und vorher ungeahnt von, Abenteuer. Aber war heute noch besonderr, weil heute war Weihnachtstag, und so bestimmt war es, als meine Jugend vielleicht von neuen Büchern, neuen Spielzeugen und viel geteilter Aufregung träumt, der Tag, käme zu Verwirklichung.


Leise und vorsichtig langte ich nach der Socke, die ich verlassen hatte, flach und leer, doch voll von der Hoffnung auf Sachen, um zu kommen, die Nacht vor. Zuerst hatte ich Schwierigkeiten das Auswählen davon gegen die dunkle Tagesdecke, aber dann ergriffen meine Finger auf der jetzt wölbenden Socke und ich stieg eifrig in den Kokon von Bettzeug, das schnell begonnen hatte abzukühlen, zurück ein, sobald die Wärme meines kleinen Körpers ihnen genommen wurde. Nicht, daß ich merkte, denn ich wurde auch aufgeregt, mich um so einen kleineren Ärger zu kümmern, als die Reichtümer meines Weihnachtsstrumpfes warteten entdeckt zu werden. 


Ich entschloß mich, die Stücke eine um einen zu ziehen und genoß jeden einen, als ich deshalb machte, um das meiste Vergnügen von der Ausübung zu bekommen, aber bald wurde ich auch aufgeregt, darüber zu stören, geduldig zu sein, und ich richtete den Strumpf auf der Bettdecke auf, dem Inhalt, der in der halbe-Dunkelheit der schnelle-sich nähernden Morgendämmerung hinaus überläuft. Als sie aus ihnen fielen, klopfte zusammen, und etwas rollte vom Bett und auf dem Boden und schien zu mir genug Geräusch zu machen, um den ganzen Haushalt zu wecken. Ich hielt meinen Atem an und wagte es kaum, sich zu bewegen, das Zuhören unten für den Klang vom Tritt meiner Mutter der Landung. Es schien Alter, obwohl es wahrscheinlich nur ungefähr dreißig Sekunden war, bis ich beruhigt wurde, daß alles gesund war, und daß niemand gehört hatte. Ich wußte, daß, wenn ich dann bei meinem Spiel gefangen würde, alles bis später von mir genommen werden würde, und mir würde ganz fest aufgetragen werden, zu Schlaf zurückzugehen. Gehen Sie zu Schlaf' zurück! ich dachte. Wie können Sie zu Schlaf zurückgehen, wenn eine ganze Welt dort wartet, im Auswickeln von einem kleinen Geschenk entdeckt zu werden?


Meine Finger fanden, daß die kleine Orange und ich begannen, die Schale abzupflücken, und genoß den frischen Geruch des Zitrusgewächses, als ich machte, damit, meine Mundverwässerung beim Gedanken ans Vergnügen, um zu kommen. Ich pflückte zu einer Zeit einen Teil ab und genoß den sehnsüchtigen Geschmack von jedem, bevor ich zum nächsten weiterging und das Meiste aus meinem Preis herausholte. Dann kam die Süßigkeiten und das Auswickeln dann von einem modellhaften Auto und das Aufrollen der rollten darauf, Buch zu färben, warf schnell weg, weil ich keine Wachsmalstifte in meinem Zimmer hatte. Bald hatte ich überprüft und wieder-überprüft jedes Stück, hatte alles gegessen, was ich für die Nüsse ausnehmen konnte, die darin zu bekommen ich unfähig war. Als ich mich vorher gewundert hatte, wunderte ich mich einmal mehr bei der Weisheit der Nüsse, so schwierig sich zu öffnen, beim Sein Rolle im Schatzfund in meinem Strumpf.


Zufriedengestellt ließ ich die Wärme meines Bettes lullt mich allmählich in Schlaf zurück schließlich von meinem Abenteuer im einsamen Grenzen meines Zimmers. Kein Zweifel am Morgen ich würde es wie einen halbe gedachten an Traum erinnern, und fängt an, vorwärts zu sehen, wie Jungen, zu nächstem Weihnachten, machen, wenn die Aufregung mich einmal mehr im halbe-Licht wecken würde. Aber für jetzt gab es die Ruhe davon, um heute zu genießen, mit dem Versprechen von doch nicht ungeahnt entfaltete sich Glück als der Tag unerzählt.

One Christmas Morning : Recollections of a small boy

Barefoot and excited, I stepped out of the snug warmth of my bed onto the cold linoleum that stretched across my bedroom floor, my eyes rapidly adjusting to the half-light of the room which the crack in the door allowed. Every day was even more exciting to me then than it is now, and each new day brought with it the possibility of fresh, and previously undreamed of, adventures. But today was even more special, because today was Christmas Day, and that meant it was the day when perhaps my boyhood dreams of new books, new toys and lots of shared excitement, would come to fruition.


Quietly and carefully I reached out for the sock that I had left, flat and empty, yet full of the hope of things to come, the night before. At first I had difficulty picking it out against the dark bedspread, but then my fingers seized upon the now-bulging sock and I eagerly climbed back into the cocoon of bed-clothes that had quickly started to cool down, once they were deprived of the warmth of my little body. Not that I noticed, for I was too excited to care about such a minor irritation when the riches of my Christmas stocking waited to be discovered. 


I determined to extract the items one by one, savouring each one as I did so in order to get the most pleasure from the exercise, but soon I was too excited to bother about being patient, and I upended the stocking onto the bed-cover, the contents spilling out in the half-dark of the fast-approaching dawn. As they tumbled out they knocked together, and something rolled off the bed and onto the floor, seeming to me to make enough noise to wake the whole household. I held my breath, hardly daring to move, listening for the sound of my mother's tread on the landing below. It seemed ages, although it was probably only about thirty seconds, until I was reassured that all was well, and that nobody had heard. I knew that if I got caught at my game then everything would be taken from me until later and I would be told quite firmly to go back to sleep. 'Go back to sleep!' I thought. How can you go back to sleep when there's a whole world waiting to be discovered in the unwrapping of a small present?


My fingers found the little orange and I started to pick off the peel, savouring the fresh smell of citrus as I did so, my mouth watering at the thought of the treat to come. I picked off one segment at a time, enjoying the lingering taste of each before I moved on to the next, getting the most out of my prize. Then came the sweets and then unwrapping of a model car and unrolling the rolled up colouring book, quickly discarded because I had no crayons in my room. Soon I had checked and re-checked every item, had eaten all that I could except for the nuts which I was unable to get into. As I had wondered before, I wondered once again at the wisdom of nuts, so difficult to open, being part of the treasure trove in my stocking.


Satisfied finally from my  adventure in the solitary confine of my room, I let the warmth of my bed gradually lull me back into sleep. No doubt in the morning I would recall it like a half-remembered dream, and start looking forward, as boys do, to next Christmas, when the excitement would wake me once again in the half-light. But for now there was the rest of today to enjoy, with the promise of untold, yet not unimagined, happiness as the day unfolded.

Short Story: God has left His House!

God Has left His House!

A short story by Colin Gordon-Farleigh

It was a typical Sunday morning and the church was slowly stretching itself open at the start of the new day. The heating system clicked on, the timing carefully set by the caretaker to make the most efficient use of it, and the moisture on the windows slowly cleared away. In a few hours the heat, so carefully stored up, would be fighting against the cold draughts as the doors opened to admit the congregation for the morning service.

The service started at eleven o’clock and now, at ten thirty, the first arrivals were settling in to the round of little chores that always needed to be done. The gates at the end of the path were unlocked, the flowers were primped up in their vases and the hymn numbers were put up on the boards that had been donated in memory of some long-forgotten saint from a past congregation.

Time to warm up the organ and for the organist to stretch her fingers in an attempt to beat the arthritis that threatened to stop her from playing. After a few melodies which she considered suitable to get her into the mood, she started to practise the anthem that the little choir would sing at the commencement of the service. ’Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty …’ she quietly mouthed the words in time to the music. It was a favourite piece of hers, just as it had been for her father when he had played the organ in the little church so many years before her. She played on, ’Holy, holy, holy, all the saints adore Thee …’ and remembered the days when she was young and the pews were far fuller than they were now. ’Just the remnant now,’ she thought, and sighed a deep sigh of sadness. ‘Holy, holy, holy, though the darkness hide Thee …’ The darkness certainly seemed to hide God these days she thought to herself, it’s as though He has left the house.

The people were slowly starting to come in now. In twelve minutes time the pews would seat their regular occupants and the organ would quietly play time-loved tunes until the service was ready to start. The organist played a little louder as the music was drowned out by the chatter amongst the congregation, and as if in defiance, the chatter increased in a seeming attempt to drown out the sound of the organ.

A distinguished looking man had entered the church and was sitting quietly towards the back, his head bowed as he tried to prepare himself for the service and to meet with God. The noise around him increased until he had to sit up, his prayers stilled by the chattering people. In his head he heard a loud-speaker shouting out that this was a time to be silent, yet nobody else seemed to hear it. The minister entered the sanctuary, but still many of the congregation continued their chattering. A fleeting look of irritation crossed his face at the unwelcome sound, and then the organist struck up the opening chords of the anthem, drowning out the few who persisted in their interruption of the worship. ‘Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!’ The distinguished looking man loved this hymn which seemed to explain so well in song the way that he felt. The choir sang, a few even managing to put the right dynamics into their singing, and gradually got to the end a they sang, ‘… Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty, …’ The man allowed himself a wry smile as he reflected that it was just as well that God was merciful as well as mighty, otherwise this congregation might well suffer for their irritating chatter. ‘If only it could be like it once was,’ he thought, ‘when people sat quietly in the pew before the service began, settling themselves to be in the presence of the Almighty God Himself.’

Now the choir had stopped and the minister was bidding everyone welcome, yet still a few people chattered on as though they felt that what they had to say was far more important. The loud-speaker in the man’s head screamed out at them to be silent. Despite this the few persisted to make comments on and off through the hymns and the announcements, and even during the time of prayer.

The man considered it all, his head slowly turning to take in the whole picture. The minister announced the next hymn; number 48 in Mission Praise, he intoned, ‘Be still and know that I am God.’ The man sighed and quietly whispered to himself, ‘If only they would!’ It was as though there was a determination to keep God shut out of His house in case he demanded something from those who claimed to worship and serve Him.

The minister was well into his message now, and many of the congregation quietly thought about what they would do later that day, or about the Sunday dinner. The looks on their faces cried out of the bored resignation that they felt, yet this was a ritual that they had become used to. It made them feel good to be in the little church Sunday by Sunday, and it gave them the opportunity to talk about the days when everyone did the same, and when the world was a better place. Still, at least they would be alright at the end. Soon the minister had finished. He’d been careful not to say anything that might alienate any of the congregation and reduce the numbers still further. The days of true preaching were over! Nowadays the best thing was to preach a social gospel rather than one that spoke of sin and repentance.

The distinguished looking man sighed once more, saddened that this congregation were like so many others that he’d visited, none of which served the real purpose that they were there for.

The final hymn having been sung, the minister was pronouncing a blessing on the congregation before dismissing them to their homes. Ironically, the organist struck up the chords of the anthem that had opened the service and a few of the congregation quietly sang along, ‘Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, …’

Soon they were drowned out by the chatter as people got up to leave, and once again the loudspeaker in the man’s head screamed out for silence, yet no silence came. He got up and turned towards the door. Nobody spoke to him for they were too busy speaking with the people they knew.

As he left the church there was the sound of a loud wind whistling through the open door. Those who could hear such things knew that it declared that God too had left His house.

How about a nice cup of tea?

It was just a teapot. Some people might have said it was just an ordinary teapot, but not me. To me it was the whole world in microcosm, because of what it stood for. It had been placed on our table more times than I could remember, gazed at, admired or ignored, by countless visitors. To me it was more than just a useful object; much more than a means of refreshment. Yes, to me it was a thing of great beauty, the colours telling people as much about me as the teapot itself. The base was a rich blue, blue enough to remind me of the sea one minute and the sky the next. Then there was that band of earth colours --- terracotta and mustard --- that reminded me of the goodness of the earth. Finally the handle, which apart from the warmth of the colours, was reassuringly robust. When you gripped it to lift the teapot and pour out the welcome liquid into a cup the handle reassured you that it was up to the job. You had, so to speak, nothing to worry about.

But, as if all of this was not enough, there was the activity that the teapot represented. People gathered around the table or scattered around the room, all brought together by the nectar that had come to life in that teapot. On a cold day even the steam from the hot tea was welcome, bringing with it that warm glow that comes with the imbibing of the swirling brown liquid. It caused people to exclaim, to sigh, to laugh. It brought warmth into their lives in its own special way. Later, even the memory of it would bring back a little of the warmth that was shared around the table.

Some people would have covered it with a tea-cosy in order to maintain the heat inside, but I always thought that a little sacrilegious myself. After all, when you have a thing of such beauty why cover it up?

If I ever feel a little lonely nowadays, all I have to do is to recall any of the many afternoons when I, in the company of a friend or friends, enjoyed an hour gathered around the teapot, chatting about old times or postulating on new ones. Do that for a few moments and the loneliness is soon gone!

One or two people thought that the teapot was so special, so beautiful, that it should be locked away in a glass cabinet, not to be used but just to be admired. Yet what would be the purpose of it then? It was, after all, a functional thing as well as a thing of beauty.

People often lock away something because they feel that it's too precious to be left for all and sundry to share. In the Bible there is a parable about a man who purchased a field in which he had found a great treasure. In order to keep it for himself he purchased the field, keeping the treasure hidden from others. Yet the value of the treasure was in its sharing.

Sometimes I visit people who proudly show me the Bible that was given to them when they were baptised, or for a special occasion, and they display it still in the box that it was given to them in, with the tissue paper as crisp and clean as the day that it was packed into the box with. They think that by keeping it so pristine they have done something good with it, but the sad truth is that they were given the Word of God to feed their spiritual being on a daily basis, yet rather than do that they did just as the man who found the treasure did and buried the bible out of sight. It was a hidden treasure that had been locked away, it's value hidden from sight, yet it was a priceless treasure that needed to be shared in order for its value to be appreciated.

There we are then, dear reader, there's something to think about as you gather around your teapot to enjoy a nice hot cup of tea with your family and friends today.