When I was a child, Easter was one of the few, very special and exciting events of the year. Although it didn’t have the raw excitement of Christmas, it seemed like a symbol of many enjoyable aspects all rolled into one. Although I wasn’t knowledgeable about botany, biology and the mechanics of the seasons, it was obvious that the world around me was awakening again after winter and seemed so much brighter and alive – a positive ‘buzz’ prevailed. It signalled the start of good times again. Spring heralded lighter nights, which meant we could ‘play out’ with our friends after school again. It preceded my birthday by a few weeks, another exciting event. Then there were all the chocolate eggs given to us by relatives and friends. Remember, in the 50s chocolate was a real luxury and not a regular indulgence like it is for young people now. My parents usually gave us a special egg. It was in two halves and when opened, revealed a bag of sweets inside. I was quite cautious with my egg consumption, unlike my friend Barry, who would have eaten all of his by the end of the week. I would always keep one back so that I could have more little treats when Easter was long past. I’d break off a tiny piece to eat every so often and sometimes that egg would last for months!
I must say that the actual meaning of Easter was a puzzle to me. It was all the uplifting, positive things I mentioned, symbolised by cute bunnies, chickens and yummy chocolate eggs but it was also a downbeat religious celebration. God, Jesus and Christian religion was something we were aware of from our Sunday school and normal school lessons, but I had no real understanding of it at all. It seemed to be a series of stories about foreign people and strange events and times long, long ago. Jesus was the hero, I knew that, but the Easter story was completely baffling and conflicting with the rest of the Easter mood in my world. The story started out well with a donkey ride and people throwing palm leaves. Jesus and his disciples seemed to be having a good time and even having a party but from there, things turned decidedly nasty. How could a man who was clearly a force for good, be treated like a nasty criminal and eventually nailed to a wooden cross? What had all this to do with bunnies, chickens and chocolate? And who was the man with the weird name - Pontius Pilate and why was he washing his hands. Why did Jesus have to die to save us from our sins? The saving grace to this horrendous story was the fact that he came back to life again. I clearly had a lot to learn about the world and the people in it.
As a last and serious note, it wasn’t until a few years ago that the whole story actually made sense to me. Mel Gibson’s The Passion of Christ is an incredibly brutal and graphic film and a very moving one for me. It did however, put the whole confusing jumble of Easter tales into perspective, which I had never really understood until I saw it. The saddest aspect is, that after 2000 years, the human race has not learned to live peacefully and is still capable of inflicting immense pain and suffering on it’s fellow men.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Monday, 6 April 2009
The cinema
After the last two depressing posts I thought I’d write about something more fun – going to the cinema. We called it ‘the pictures’ or ‘the flicks’ when we got older and wanted to sound more cool. We had two cinemas in our small town and sometimes my parents took us to see the latest ‘blockbuster’ films. They were usually musicals or biblical films: South Pacific; The King and I; Seven Brides for Seven Brothers; Inn of the Seventh Happiness; Genevieve; ‘The Ten Commandments’; King of Kings; Spartacus; do you remember any of those? Better still were the Elvis and Cliff Richard films. Blue Hawaii; Jailhouse Rock; GI Blues; Summer Holiday etc. This was major entertainment for us and incredibly exciting.
My, how things have changed since then! You got two films – the main film preceded by a small production ‘B’ film usually in black and white. Virtually no adverts but sometimes you got some sort of short world-wide newsreel film about post war developments in Gibralter, Aden or somewhere I’d never heard of. Before the film started, there was a man sat at an organ in front of the curtain. He was playing to entertain us. He and organ would slowly disappear through a trapdoor when it started and emerge again at the interval. A lady then walked down the aisle with a tray (it had a small lamp attached so you could see the goods) full of ice-creams, iced lollies and crisps to buy. No bucketfuls of popcorn, Pepsi or burgers at inflated prices then. The ice-cream was usually in a small waxed cardboard tub and you got a flat wooden spoon to eat it. I’d scrape every last morsel of out of it and then chew the wood to get the last atom of flavour. Sometime we got a Jubbly, which was frozen orange juice in a weird triangular shaped waxed box. It was almost impossible to get into and you’d end up trying to bite the thing open.
People were allowed to smoke and there were small ashtrays on the backs of the seats. They swivelled around so they could be emptied. A lot of men wore trilby hats in the 50s and the worst thing for a child was getting one of them sitting in front of you. At the end of the film they played the National Anthem. People would already be getting up and making there way up the aisles but as soon as it started, everyone would freeze in their tracks and remain silent. I remember being totally puzzled by this weird behaviour and any communication with my parents was totally without a response until it had finished. It was like pressing the pause button on the DVD player. I was often amazed when we got out to find that either daylight had become night-time or it was still daylight and after the two or three hours of darkness inside I expected it to be dark.
My, how things have changed since then! You got two films – the main film preceded by a small production ‘B’ film usually in black and white. Virtually no adverts but sometimes you got some sort of short world-wide newsreel film about post war developments in Gibralter, Aden or somewhere I’d never heard of. Before the film started, there was a man sat at an organ in front of the curtain. He was playing to entertain us. He and organ would slowly disappear through a trapdoor when it started and emerge again at the interval. A lady then walked down the aisle with a tray (it had a small lamp attached so you could see the goods) full of ice-creams, iced lollies and crisps to buy. No bucketfuls of popcorn, Pepsi or burgers at inflated prices then. The ice-cream was usually in a small waxed cardboard tub and you got a flat wooden spoon to eat it. I’d scrape every last morsel of out of it and then chew the wood to get the last atom of flavour. Sometime we got a Jubbly, which was frozen orange juice in a weird triangular shaped waxed box. It was almost impossible to get into and you’d end up trying to bite the thing open.
People were allowed to smoke and there were small ashtrays on the backs of the seats. They swivelled around so they could be emptied. A lot of men wore trilby hats in the 50s and the worst thing for a child was getting one of them sitting in front of you. At the end of the film they played the National Anthem. People would already be getting up and making there way up the aisles but as soon as it started, everyone would freeze in their tracks and remain silent. I remember being totally puzzled by this weird behaviour and any communication with my parents was totally without a response until it had finished. It was like pressing the pause button on the DVD player. I was often amazed when we got out to find that either daylight had become night-time or it was still daylight and after the two or three hours of darkness inside I expected it to be dark.
Thursday, 2 April 2009
Doctors, illness and death
I’ve told you about the dentist, so I might as well describe the other scary man – the doctor. In the 1950s there were no health centres and everyone was allocated a family doctor who always treated you each time. We had two doctors though, a father and son. Both seemed very tall, skinny, well dressed in suits and spoke with ‘posh’ accents. The father was ill-tempered, impatient and gave the impression that he detested having to deal with you and didn’t really believe you were ill in the first place. The son was the opposite, so I prayed that it was him who would treat me.
Home visits were easily arranged then. No dragon on reception to give you the third degree or a three-day delay for a visit. Sometimes we attended their surgery, which was a big old house similar to the dentist’s. It was their home but they had converted rooms for waiting and treatment. I seem to remember the waiting room had dark wooden panelling around the walls and similar battered old magazines and Rupert Bear annuals that the dentist had for entertainment.
Most childhood illnesses simply involved a few quick checks on your vital functions whilst the thermometer was slipped under your tongue. The urge to bite or chew it was almost irresistible. Doctors’ instruments were not as scary as the dentists. He had a round mirror with a hole in the middle, strapped to his head. I’ve no idea what function that had. Sometimes he’d shine a small torch into your mouth and eyes, poke a stick onto your tongue and of course, the cold stethoscope would be clapped onto your chest and back. It was an incredible relief when he finally declared you were going to live and informed mum that you had some weird sounding condition called measles, mumps, chicken pox or tonsillitis. The best part was hearing that you had to miss school for a week or two - yesssss.
As I write this, it doesn’t seem scary at all now. I guess it was the fear of illness and death that frightened me. As a young child, it seemed that these two scary monsters were always lurking around the corner. Although I didn’t experience a death until much older, I was often aware of it as a serious threat to my well-being! Death seemed like a sort of eternal, dreamless sleep – a blackness, a nothingness. The concept of non-existence or permanent loss of parents, family or friends was hard to accept. Promises of living in heaven with God were no less scary. He was an old man with a beard that I had never met before. No substitute for mum and dad.
I remember when very young, thinking about this ‘death’ state and becoming overwhelmingly sad and scared. One time I burst into floods of tears. When mum asked what was wrong, I told her ‘I didn’t want to die’ and sobbed uncontrollably. She must have been mystified by this outburst but consoled me with hugs and assurance and ‘Don’t be silly, you’re not going to die.’ Although I am in my 50s now, those two monsters (illness and death) occasionally stalk me. I don’t fear death or the possibility of oblivion much now, but I’ve seen so many friends and loved ones suffer illness and eventual death, that the thought of them and leaving or losing loved ones permanently, still causes some anguish. Mum’s hugs and assurances of eternal life don’t work anymore.
Home visits were easily arranged then. No dragon on reception to give you the third degree or a three-day delay for a visit. Sometimes we attended their surgery, which was a big old house similar to the dentist’s. It was their home but they had converted rooms for waiting and treatment. I seem to remember the waiting room had dark wooden panelling around the walls and similar battered old magazines and Rupert Bear annuals that the dentist had for entertainment.
Most childhood illnesses simply involved a few quick checks on your vital functions whilst the thermometer was slipped under your tongue. The urge to bite or chew it was almost irresistible. Doctors’ instruments were not as scary as the dentists. He had a round mirror with a hole in the middle, strapped to his head. I’ve no idea what function that had. Sometimes he’d shine a small torch into your mouth and eyes, poke a stick onto your tongue and of course, the cold stethoscope would be clapped onto your chest and back. It was an incredible relief when he finally declared you were going to live and informed mum that you had some weird sounding condition called measles, mumps, chicken pox or tonsillitis. The best part was hearing that you had to miss school for a week or two - yesssss.
As I write this, it doesn’t seem scary at all now. I guess it was the fear of illness and death that frightened me. As a young child, it seemed that these two scary monsters were always lurking around the corner. Although I didn’t experience a death until much older, I was often aware of it as a serious threat to my well-being! Death seemed like a sort of eternal, dreamless sleep – a blackness, a nothingness. The concept of non-existence or permanent loss of parents, family or friends was hard to accept. Promises of living in heaven with God were no less scary. He was an old man with a beard that I had never met before. No substitute for mum and dad.
I remember when very young, thinking about this ‘death’ state and becoming overwhelmingly sad and scared. One time I burst into floods of tears. When mum asked what was wrong, I told her ‘I didn’t want to die’ and sobbed uncontrollably. She must have been mystified by this outburst but consoled me with hugs and assurance and ‘Don’t be silly, you’re not going to die.’ Although I am in my 50s now, those two monsters (illness and death) occasionally stalk me. I don’t fear death or the possibility of oblivion much now, but I’ve seen so many friends and loved ones suffer illness and eventual death, that the thought of them and leaving or losing loved ones permanently, still causes some anguish. Mum’s hugs and assurances of eternal life don’t work anymore.
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
the dentist
The mere mention of dentist used to send me into a state of fear and panic. There were two varieties – school dentists and national health dentists. Occasionally, the schools had a visit by a dentist and all the kids had to line up and have a quick inspection. He had a drinking glass full of some sort of pink disinfectant and a wooden spatula that he dipped in after each child had been inspected. He held your tongue down with it while having a cursory glance around your teeth. Some kids would have a revisit to him if they needed treatment, others would go to their own N.H. dentist. I have no idea why anyone would go to the school dentists, neither cost their parents money and they had a horrendous reputation verging on sadism.
We had the dubious option of going to our own dentist. Mum knew we would be scared and so usually sprung it on us just before the appointment. Sometimes she took us into town on the pretext of buying something. I learned to spot the signs after a few visits. The dental surgery was situated in a big rambling Victorian house at the end of the main street. There were no more shops there so as soon as we passed the last one, the game was up. No other reason to be venturing further.
The waiting room would originally have been the front room or ‘parlour’ of this grand house. It seemed huge and there was little in the way of furniture. Just a large table and several old chairs dotted around the edges of the highly polished wooden floor. Copies of very old books, comics and magazines were scattered around for our leisurely entertainment whilst we waited nervously for ‘our turn’. I was too petrified to even enjoy the japes of the Bash Street Kids and Minnie the Minx in the old Beano annuals. A nervous silence hung over the room.
Eventually a middle-aged, white-coated man with wire-rimmed spectacles appeared at the door. He reminded me of the Nazi officers I’d seen in my war comics. He would call my name and lead me to his 'torture' room. In retrospect, he was a very nice man but the sinister looking equipment suggested otherwise. The leather chair stood in the middle of the room. The drill consisted of various canti-levered metal arms, with pulleys and pieces of string driving it. There was small plate that held a glass of the same pink liquid seen at school but it had a tiny blue flame underneath to keep it warm. It was offered you to rinse with after he had mangled your mouth. Over by the window was a large chrome-plated box. His assistant would open it now and then, releasing clouds of steam from which unspeakable implements were removed and handed to the dentist. The scariest piece of equipment was a trolley holding gas cylinders and a large rubber gas mask. That clinched it – he was a Nazi officer, he was going to torture me and I would be lucky to get out alive.
I had to climb into the big nasty chair, which he pumped into the air with his foot. After poking and tugging at my teeth with pointed spikes he would inevitably declare that I needed some fillings. The pulleys and pieces of string trundled around whilst he drilled my teeth. I remember the coarse vibrations of it and the sharp pain as he hit the nerve. Sorry if this is painful reading. After what seemed like hours, he was ready to fill the hole. The assistant mixed up the amalgam on a battered glass dish with a hollow in the middle. The dentist packed my mouth with numerous wads of cotton wool and squeezed the fillings in, which made a strange squeaking noise. When he was done, we were released again to great relief. Mum might buy us a few sweets as a reward for our bravery and to ensure the dentist had a repeat business!
Sometimes, things were more desperate . Extractions were needed. This was where the gas mask came in. I remember the strong smell of rubber as it was clamped over my face. Then the sickly smell of the gas followed by a sensation of floating and …..
The next thing I was aware of was the dentist’s voice, coaxing me back to consciousness, followed by the taste of blood. I remember tentatively probing the place where the tooth had been with my tongue. A soggy, metallic-tasting hole greeted it. Mum provided a clean, folded handkerchief to hold over my mouth as we walked back along the street to freedom. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I found out she was as scared of the dentist as me. She once gave me one of the best pieces of advice and comfort I have ever had. Before going in for some nasty treatment she said,
‘Remember, nothing lasts forever. It will soon be over.’
We had the dubious option of going to our own dentist. Mum knew we would be scared and so usually sprung it on us just before the appointment. Sometimes she took us into town on the pretext of buying something. I learned to spot the signs after a few visits. The dental surgery was situated in a big rambling Victorian house at the end of the main street. There were no more shops there so as soon as we passed the last one, the game was up. No other reason to be venturing further.
The waiting room would originally have been the front room or ‘parlour’ of this grand house. It seemed huge and there was little in the way of furniture. Just a large table and several old chairs dotted around the edges of the highly polished wooden floor. Copies of very old books, comics and magazines were scattered around for our leisurely entertainment whilst we waited nervously for ‘our turn’. I was too petrified to even enjoy the japes of the Bash Street Kids and Minnie the Minx in the old Beano annuals. A nervous silence hung over the room.
Eventually a middle-aged, white-coated man with wire-rimmed spectacles appeared at the door. He reminded me of the Nazi officers I’d seen in my war comics. He would call my name and lead me to his 'torture' room. In retrospect, he was a very nice man but the sinister looking equipment suggested otherwise. The leather chair stood in the middle of the room. The drill consisted of various canti-levered metal arms, with pulleys and pieces of string driving it. There was small plate that held a glass of the same pink liquid seen at school but it had a tiny blue flame underneath to keep it warm. It was offered you to rinse with after he had mangled your mouth. Over by the window was a large chrome-plated box. His assistant would open it now and then, releasing clouds of steam from which unspeakable implements were removed and handed to the dentist. The scariest piece of equipment was a trolley holding gas cylinders and a large rubber gas mask. That clinched it – he was a Nazi officer, he was going to torture me and I would be lucky to get out alive.
I had to climb into the big nasty chair, which he pumped into the air with his foot. After poking and tugging at my teeth with pointed spikes he would inevitably declare that I needed some fillings. The pulleys and pieces of string trundled around whilst he drilled my teeth. I remember the coarse vibrations of it and the sharp pain as he hit the nerve. Sorry if this is painful reading. After what seemed like hours, he was ready to fill the hole. The assistant mixed up the amalgam on a battered glass dish with a hollow in the middle. The dentist packed my mouth with numerous wads of cotton wool and squeezed the fillings in, which made a strange squeaking noise. When he was done, we were released again to great relief. Mum might buy us a few sweets as a reward for our bravery and to ensure the dentist had a repeat business!
Sometimes, things were more desperate . Extractions were needed. This was where the gas mask came in. I remember the strong smell of rubber as it was clamped over my face. Then the sickly smell of the gas followed by a sensation of floating and …..
The next thing I was aware of was the dentist’s voice, coaxing me back to consciousness, followed by the taste of blood. I remember tentatively probing the place where the tooth had been with my tongue. A soggy, metallic-tasting hole greeted it. Mum provided a clean, folded handkerchief to hold over my mouth as we walked back along the street to freedom. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I found out she was as scared of the dentist as me. She once gave me one of the best pieces of advice and comfort I have ever had. Before going in for some nasty treatment she said,
‘Remember, nothing lasts forever. It will soon be over.’
Sunday, 8 March 2009
Colin - my pal
We rode our bikes to Fewston and bought Barrs shandy from the tiny Post Office shop. I envied his bike. It had four gears.
We set fire to the grass verge with a magnifying glass. Scared, we turned back. We never pedalled so fast.
We climbed our neighbours’ fences when it was dark and nicked apples from their trees. We ate them in an old hen-hut on an abandoned allotment.
We spent our pocket money in the corner shops – Morgans, Turners and Hudsons.
We bought cigarettes in fives – Cadets, Woodbines, Buckingham and two ounces of sweets - Midget Gems, Riley’s Toffee Rolls, Mint Imperials and Yorkshire Mixture.
We climbed up the back of advertising hordings, sat on the girders and smoked.
We played three and in football and cricket with a bald tennis ball. We had a rule – no slogging – but we still did.
We spent hours by the river: catching bullhead; skimming stones to seeing how many bounces we could get; throwing stones and trying to hit sand martins as they swooped and dived. Of course we never could.
We played ponks in the gutter with our marbles, passing time on our way home from school.
Colin had a cool money-box. It was shaped like the top half of a negro man. You put a coin in his hand and he swallowed it.
He made me Marmite sandwiches for tea. We played Rummy.
We grew up, left school, got jobs. Girlfriends became more interesting than each other.
I haven’t seen him since.
We set fire to the grass verge with a magnifying glass. Scared, we turned back. We never pedalled so fast.
We climbed our neighbours’ fences when it was dark and nicked apples from their trees. We ate them in an old hen-hut on an abandoned allotment.
We spent our pocket money in the corner shops – Morgans, Turners and Hudsons.
We bought cigarettes in fives – Cadets, Woodbines, Buckingham and two ounces of sweets - Midget Gems, Riley’s Toffee Rolls, Mint Imperials and Yorkshire Mixture.
We climbed up the back of advertising hordings, sat on the girders and smoked.
We played three and in football and cricket with a bald tennis ball. We had a rule – no slogging – but we still did.
We spent hours by the river: catching bullhead; skimming stones to seeing how many bounces we could get; throwing stones and trying to hit sand martins as they swooped and dived. Of course we never could.
We played ponks in the gutter with our marbles, passing time on our way home from school.
Colin had a cool money-box. It was shaped like the top half of a negro man. You put a coin in his hand and he swallowed it.
He made me Marmite sandwiches for tea. We played Rummy.
We grew up, left school, got jobs. Girlfriends became more interesting than each other.
I haven’t seen him since.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
the camera
I have long held a fascination for photography and cameras. They fall into my category of ‘magical’ things, along with magnets, gyroscopes, magnifying glasses and fire. The ability to capture a visual moment in time is fantastic and still excites me. My earliest experience of photography goes back to the age of around four years old. Two friends of my mother arrived one evening to take some family photos, this was a first for me. Not only did they have a rather impressive camera but also lights on stands and large flashbulbs. The whole affair was quite exciting, although I didn’t understand what it was all leading to until we got copies of the pictures a few weeks later. This was the start.
Photography for ordinary folk was rare, reserved mainly for special occasions such as holidays, and visits from far-off relatives. Film and processing were an expensive luxury. We had a simple Ensign box camera. It was an ugly thing but provided my first glimpse into this visual sorcery. There was a small internal mirror that reflected the image onto a large magnifying glass on top, which you used to compose the picture. I remember mum allowing me to look down into it and being entranced by the miniature picture of the world around me. I wasn’t allowed to press the shutter button and take a photo for a long time. That was something only adults were entrusted with. It was a pity because mum had poor eyesight and most of her photos were lopsided or cut off half of the subject.
Photos were black and white, colour had been around a long time but it was far too expensive. The roll films held only 12 pictures, unlike the almost limitless capacity of digital photography nowadays, so you couldn’t afford to be extravagant with them. That means that we have relatively few photos to look back on those times but makes them precious. Changing a film was another act of sorcery. You had to find a dark place – a cupboard or shady spot for this procedure. That added to the air of secrecy and mystery about photography that appealed to me. It was usually a job for dad who always seemed a little stressed, as if it was a major responsibility. Once the film was loaded you looked into a small transparent red window on the camera whilst you wound it on. Small arrows could be seen passing by until the number one appeared and it was ready to use.
Our camera eventually started to allow light to leak into it, causing white patches around the edges of the photos. Mum eventually stopped using it and I was allowed to play with it at last. It had only been used for taking photos of people, but I discovered the wider potential of photography as an exciting art, composing pictures in the viewfinder of landscapes, flowers, buildings and unusual angles on the world around me. I pretended there was film inside and got great pleasure from pretending to ‘take’ these pictures. I was about thirteen when I convinced mum to give me the camera and allow me to buy a film. She tried her best to put me off the idea because it leaked light and the pictures would be useless and a waste of money but I didn’t care. I was incredibly excited at the prospect of finding something interesting and making my own pictures. I took my first photos and handed the film in to the chemist shop to get them developed. I had to wait about a week for them. What an exciting time that was when I picked them up. Yes the photos were badly blotched but they were my work. I was hooked.
Mum must have noted this enthusiasm and on my fourteenth birthday, I was presented with one of the wonderful, newly invented, Kodak Instamatic cameras. This was state of the art equipment for the man-in-the-street photographer. The film was held in a lightproof cartridge that you simply dropped into the camera, wound on a few times and was ready to go in seconds. No need for dark cupboards and no blotchy white photos. There was a clip-on flash adaptor that took tiny disposable flashbulbs for indoor shots. I used this little camera for years and eventually started shooting colour slides with it. That took me into another dimension in this magical world. I still have that little camera.
I now have a couple of digital cameras and although they have taken some of the anticipation out of the hobby, I still get that excited buzz from composing a scene in the viewfinder and pressing the button, knowing I have captured something special, a moment in time and space where I stood and the thrill of seeing it later on my computer screen.
Photography for ordinary folk was rare, reserved mainly for special occasions such as holidays, and visits from far-off relatives. Film and processing were an expensive luxury. We had a simple Ensign box camera. It was an ugly thing but provided my first glimpse into this visual sorcery. There was a small internal mirror that reflected the image onto a large magnifying glass on top, which you used to compose the picture. I remember mum allowing me to look down into it and being entranced by the miniature picture of the world around me. I wasn’t allowed to press the shutter button and take a photo for a long time. That was something only adults were entrusted with. It was a pity because mum had poor eyesight and most of her photos were lopsided or cut off half of the subject.
Photos were black and white, colour had been around a long time but it was far too expensive. The roll films held only 12 pictures, unlike the almost limitless capacity of digital photography nowadays, so you couldn’t afford to be extravagant with them. That means that we have relatively few photos to look back on those times but makes them precious. Changing a film was another act of sorcery. You had to find a dark place – a cupboard or shady spot for this procedure. That added to the air of secrecy and mystery about photography that appealed to me. It was usually a job for dad who always seemed a little stressed, as if it was a major responsibility. Once the film was loaded you looked into a small transparent red window on the camera whilst you wound it on. Small arrows could be seen passing by until the number one appeared and it was ready to use.
Our camera eventually started to allow light to leak into it, causing white patches around the edges of the photos. Mum eventually stopped using it and I was allowed to play with it at last. It had only been used for taking photos of people, but I discovered the wider potential of photography as an exciting art, composing pictures in the viewfinder of landscapes, flowers, buildings and unusual angles on the world around me. I pretended there was film inside and got great pleasure from pretending to ‘take’ these pictures. I was about thirteen when I convinced mum to give me the camera and allow me to buy a film. She tried her best to put me off the idea because it leaked light and the pictures would be useless and a waste of money but I didn’t care. I was incredibly excited at the prospect of finding something interesting and making my own pictures. I took my first photos and handed the film in to the chemist shop to get them developed. I had to wait about a week for them. What an exciting time that was when I picked them up. Yes the photos were badly blotched but they were my work. I was hooked.
Mum must have noted this enthusiasm and on my fourteenth birthday, I was presented with one of the wonderful, newly invented, Kodak Instamatic cameras. This was state of the art equipment for the man-in-the-street photographer. The film was held in a lightproof cartridge that you simply dropped into the camera, wound on a few times and was ready to go in seconds. No need for dark cupboards and no blotchy white photos. There was a clip-on flash adaptor that took tiny disposable flashbulbs for indoor shots. I used this little camera for years and eventually started shooting colour slides with it. That took me into another dimension in this magical world. I still have that little camera.
I now have a couple of digital cameras and although they have taken some of the anticipation out of the hobby, I still get that excited buzz from composing a scene in the viewfinder and pressing the button, knowing I have captured something special, a moment in time and space where I stood and the thrill of seeing it later on my computer screen.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
the toy cupboard
It was known as the “toy cupboard” but to me, it was the portal to another world.
It was next to the bath I spoke about earlier. Built into an alcove, there was a large copper water cylinder above, which kept it comfortably warm. The toy cupboard measured about three by four feet and a couple of feet high. There were lead water pipes running around the bottom of the walls, where spiders and silverfish sometimes lurked. Two old wooden boxes were kept inside to hold most of our toys. I would often climb into one of them and shut the door. It was a place where I felt safe and private, a haven from a world I was still unsure of. Sometimes I’d fall asleep.
Other times it was a place of excitement – a cinema, a car or a spaceship. It was our stage for make-belief adventures. I had a toy battery operated slide projector. The slides had images from the comic strip Dan Dare. Sometimes the four of us – me, Barry and the two Shirleys – would climb into the toy boxes that became our seats of a 1950s space rocket! I would sit in the front and be the projectionist, illuminating the flaky whitewashed wall, transforming it into a window to outer space. We spent many hours exploring this new universe, fighting aliens and out-running them in our low-tech, toy box rocket. Eventually it would get unbearably hot or the appearance of a spider would ensure a hasty exit from the escape hatch!
It was next to the bath I spoke about earlier. Built into an alcove, there was a large copper water cylinder above, which kept it comfortably warm. The toy cupboard measured about three by four feet and a couple of feet high. There were lead water pipes running around the bottom of the walls, where spiders and silverfish sometimes lurked. Two old wooden boxes were kept inside to hold most of our toys. I would often climb into one of them and shut the door. It was a place where I felt safe and private, a haven from a world I was still unsure of. Sometimes I’d fall asleep.
Other times it was a place of excitement – a cinema, a car or a spaceship. It was our stage for make-belief adventures. I had a toy battery operated slide projector. The slides had images from the comic strip Dan Dare. Sometimes the four of us – me, Barry and the two Shirleys – would climb into the toy boxes that became our seats of a 1950s space rocket! I would sit in the front and be the projectionist, illuminating the flaky whitewashed wall, transforming it into a window to outer space. We spent many hours exploring this new universe, fighting aliens and out-running them in our low-tech, toy box rocket. Eventually it would get unbearably hot or the appearance of a spider would ensure a hasty exit from the escape hatch!
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
baby boomer intro
What better time and place could I have asked for to be born - 1951, England? OK there probably are some better options but it is probably one of the more interesting periods/places of the 20th Century to land on this planet. I’m thinking that as a teenager, what could have been more exciting than spending it in the heart of the cultural revolution that was taking place with it’s centre right here in Britain during the 1960’s?
It was a great time to be emerging from your childhood into the adult world. Being born a few years earlier would have probably meant that I was newly married, with a couple of kids and a mortgage and out of the social scene that was spiralling to a peak of new discoveries that were a teenagers paradise. Sounds too good to be true doesn’t it? Well actually it wasn’t that good but if you liked pop and rock music and all that stuff, it was pretty damn good. Being born a few years later meant I would have been stuck with listening to the likes of Brotherhood of Man and Alvin Stardust instead of Eric Clapton, CSN&Y, Santana and Jimmy Hendrix.
It’s probably just coincidence but the fifties, being half way through the century, seemed to be a turning point in our society and the sixties saw an end to a lot of things that had not changed much since our parents were children. I am old enough to remember the delights of steam trains, Dan Dare, “the corner shop”, Bill and Ben, valve radios or “wirelesses” as they were called then, and a host of other things that are in danger of getting lost from our consciousness.
I am still young enough, however to witness the fantastic discoveries and inventions of the late 20th century – computers and the internet, CD’s, man’s landing on the moon, “keyhole" surgery, etc. These things are still with us and ever present in our daily lives so it’s the images and memories of the 50’s and 60’s that I intend to invoke. If you were born later than 1965 you are probably too young to associate much with this but your parents might be able to endorse what I have written and maybe expand on it. This picture shows our little family with my grandparents (mother's side) in our front garden. In case you had doubts, I'm the little chap with his shorts pulled up to his shoulders!
I am writing this blog from a highly personal point of view, some of the images can be proven as fact and others – well, unless you were a shy, sensitive and somewhat imaginative child, you might not agree with my observations. On the other hand you might discover that someone else exists on this planet that was as bent and twisted as yourself! Buckle your seatbelts, set the time machine to “somewhere in Britain during the mid 20th century" and see where you land. Have fun.
It was a great time to be emerging from your childhood into the adult world. Being born a few years earlier would have probably meant that I was newly married, with a couple of kids and a mortgage and out of the social scene that was spiralling to a peak of new discoveries that were a teenagers paradise. Sounds too good to be true doesn’t it? Well actually it wasn’t that good but if you liked pop and rock music and all that stuff, it was pretty damn good. Being born a few years later meant I would have been stuck with listening to the likes of Brotherhood of Man and Alvin Stardust instead of Eric Clapton, CSN&Y, Santana and Jimmy Hendrix.
It’s probably just coincidence but the fifties, being half way through the century, seemed to be a turning point in our society and the sixties saw an end to a lot of things that had not changed much since our parents were children. I am old enough to remember the delights of steam trains, Dan Dare, “the corner shop”, Bill and Ben, valve radios or “wirelesses” as they were called then, and a host of other things that are in danger of getting lost from our consciousness.I am still young enough, however to witness the fantastic discoveries and inventions of the late 20th century – computers and the internet, CD’s, man’s landing on the moon, “keyhole" surgery, etc. These things are still with us and ever present in our daily lives so it’s the images and memories of the 50’s and 60’s that I intend to invoke. If you were born later than 1965 you are probably too young to associate much with this but your parents might be able to endorse what I have written and maybe expand on it. This picture shows our little family with my grandparents (mother's side) in our front garden. In case you had doubts, I'm the little chap with his shorts pulled up to his shoulders!
I am writing this blog from a highly personal point of view, some of the images can be proven as fact and others – well, unless you were a shy, sensitive and somewhat imaginative child, you might not agree with my observations. On the other hand you might discover that someone else exists on this planet that was as bent and twisted as yourself! Buckle your seatbelts, set the time machine to “somewhere in Britain during the mid 20th century" and see where you land. Have fun.
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