Who can remember the day when...

What is it about random memories that occasionally come into mind from left field, without any common sense or connection to present events or thoughts; memories that go back donkey's years and have no real context to what's happening in front of you?

For some bizarre and inexplicable reason, I have been thinking about a time when I was about 15 or 16 when a friend of the family, Peter Charlton took me and my dad fishing one winters day in an orange coloured Mini van (like a Mini estate with rear doors - picture from here).

I can even remember sitting on a river bank in the intense frost looking at steep muddy banks and drinking tomato soup from a flask to keep warm on that winter's day when the temperature never rose anywhere near above freezing point. No I didn't catch anything either.

I can sometimes recall distant memories, going back 50 years in rare cases, especially when I am meditating and some of those memory recall moments have appeared on previous blogs. In other cases, I am sure that I am prompted to think of such memories from a spiritual aspect, and that happens regularly, but how does that item of data get retrieved from the old grey matter having lain dormant and totally irrelevant for all that time and how and why does it come back?

Then there's the randomly recalled memory worthy of cringing - something said that was inappropriate or some act done that was embarrassing - been there, done that and no, you can't turn the clock back - you just hope that the other party never remember the event.

Of course there's the deliberately deleted memory, "I don't remember you telling me to do that dear," (rarely works by the way) and my most common memory lapse: "I distinctly remember you doing that and telling me this!" In other words, blaming someone else for my bad memory or trying to get out of trouble for something that was my fault, (also rarely works).

It is a fact that I often can't remember major issues yet can remember trivial rubbish that should have been stored and deleted as useless. Ah well - I can put it down to age I suppose.

An eighty year old couple I know were having problems remembering things, so they decided to go to their doctor to make sure nothing was wrong with them. When they arrived at the doctor's office, they explained to the doctor about the problems they were having with their memory.

After checking the couple out, the doctor told them that they were physically okay but might want to start writing things down, making notes to help them remember things. The couple thanked the doctor and left. Later that night while watching TV, the old man got up from his chair and his wife asked, "Where are you going?"

He replied, "To the kitchen."

She asked, "Will you get me a bowl of ice cream?"

"Sure."

Then his wife asked him, "Don't you think you should write it down so you can remember it?"

"No, I can remember that."

"Well, I also would like some strawberries on top. You had better write that down cause I know you'll forget that," his wife said.

"I can remember that, you want a bowl of ice cream with strawberries."

She replied, "Well, I also would like whipped cream on top. I know you will forget that. You had better write it down."

With irritation in his voice, he said, "I don't need to write that down, I can remember that." He went into the kitchen.

After about 20 minutes, he returned from the kitchen and handed her a plate of bacon and eggs.

She stared at the plate for a moment and said, "You forgot my toast."

Chat soon,

Ta-ra.

Remember, remember the fifth of November...

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder treason and plot,
I know of no reason
Why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

As I sit here trying to catch my breath after walking uphill at a fair old pace for 45 minutes, I am listening to a cacophony of bangs, booms, whistles of every imaginable pitch and even inside, sulphur rends the air. Although it's a clear chill night with a breeze, there's a misty atmosphere about the place emphasised in the mercury street lights. The dog, who is deaf and almost totally blind is oblivious and sleeping soundly next to my son who is reading Armadale by Wilkie Collins in the conservatory.

I haven't done the memory test for a while and I thought tonight might be good, being in a reflective mood and when I was trying to recall memories of bonfire night, I remember an incident at school as if it were yesterday and I would be about 9 or 10 year old. It was the morning of the 5th November and we were sat on the shiny floor of the hall at Hallgate Junior School in Cottingham in East Yorkshire in morning assembly. I was sat next to a boy called Martin Davis and I remember turning to him and saying how excited I was because I loved fireworks and that I couldn't wait for the night to come. He turned to me and said of course he could wait, I shouldn't be so excited, I was being stupid. I'm not sure why I remember that so vividly but I also recall being embarrassed and slightly shocked that someone didn't share my enthusiasm.

Never-the-less, the rebuke did not dampen my enthusiasm and although the kids are grown up now and don't set off fireworks anymore, I still get a thrill out of seeing them in the sky and smelling the spent 'gunpowder' in the air, even the next morning as I walk to the car the smell hangs in the air and I smile on finding the odd spent rocket in the garden too among the damp leaves.

I lived down the road from a lad called Christopher E++++ during my school life, a bright lad, a bit of an adventurer and fun to be around. He had a coal bunker made of brick in his garden that the family didn't use for coal any longer and it made an ideal den. We collected spent fireworks from our respective gardens from the previous night, hid away in the den and scooped grains of what we thought was unspent 'gunpowder' that remained into a spent firework tube like a Roman Candle, made a fuse and tried to set it off. We never succeeded, but we tried it several years running. Sadly as a young man, Christopher died of aids, a shocking and unique event for the community in which we lived, probably one of the first cases I had ever heard of - indeed I didn't really know what aids was then.

When I first started work I remember buying a huge firework because I could afford it, which gave a warning (only read when I got it home) that you couldn't set it off with 100 metres of a building. My mother and father were with me and we decided to put it on the grass verge in the street and set it off. Looking back, we were only about 25 yards from the house. After the first big flare went off into the air and literally deafened us all with the unexpected explosive bang, it fell over. In our panic, unable to do anything for fear of serious injury in case we tried to right it, we could only watch helplessly as it set off three more huge flares which shot off down the road at ankle level like a tracer bullet and exploded some 50 yards away. Thank God no-one was driving down the road or walking past. Needless to say we slid quickly and quietly back into the house hoping nobody had noticed!

We all had the penny bangers which we let off in the back tenfoots (we weren't vandals and didn't put them through letterboxes or tie them to cats tails), and we threw Chinese jumping crackers at each others feet in the dark and jumped about trying to avoid them. Sparklers were lit, our names written in the darkness and then thrown into trees as we imagined them to be fairies dancing in the branches. Looking back - stupid things to do, but I can't remember realising it was at all dangerous - ah the innocence, or was it foolishness of youth.

I know not everyone enjoys Bonfire Night for a variety of reasons, but if you had a party or attended an organised event, I hope you had a great time.

My final thoughts tonight go to a friend whose dad passed away earlier this evening.

Chat soon

Ta-ra.

Oh Mr Porter...

White rabbit, white rabbit, white rabbit.

As I sit down to review the day, it's only 7.20pm and as I begin typing, the street light is on outside, a full two hours before it would normally come on. Bring it on August! The third test at Edgebaston (Birmingham) has been wiped out and the outfield is under water.

Time for a meditation tonight to clear the mind of the junk on the TV I've sat and watched in the vain hope the cricket would start sometime today, and I thought it was time to do some memory testing again, something meditation can help you with making it easier, for a reason I don't know, to bring back the memories you want to bring back.

We were talking the other day about kids hanging around in gangs. Well I hung around with a group of lads but we never considered ourselves a 'gang.' We played in the street, even as teenagers but never caused trouble. British Bulldog, hide and seek were just two of many games; we went into the park after it was closed to sit in the shelter and we had a few bottles of beer (Indian Pale Ale or Nut Brown Ale) , but we never got drunk, committed vandalism or any other anti social crime.

Cottingham, where I was brought up was reputed to be the biggest village in England, something I don't think was ever proven. It also boasted having almost every species of tree known to man from around Europe and beyond within its boundary, mainly thanks to Victorian benefactors and a busy botanical gardens at the local University of Hull. It was surrounded by fields, a green belt which still survives today separating it from its big city rival of Hull.

Going to each other houses in turn was a regular weekly feature playing board games: Monopoly, Totopoly and other card games. We played cricket on the school field on a night against our rivals from the other side of the village, but all organised and done with fun in mind. I can remember playing cricket so late one night it was getting darker and darker but only a few runs were needed to win. I was keeping wicket and the bowler made his run (we were using a real hard cricket ball and no-one had pads) and bowled. The problem was I never saw the ball and neither did the batsman and frankly neither did anyone else. Everyone screamed and hit the deck covering their head or other delicate bits.

The bowler was the only one still on his feet, in hysterics because he had never let go of the ball!

Evenings were long and safe. I walked by myself to my grandparents house on the other side of the railway lines (Hull to Scarborough line) from being fairly young and never worried about strangers. My mother told me in a vague unspecific way that if anyone tried to grab me I was to kick them between the legs! Something a not very confident ten year old would really think of doing! The walk over the railway was well lit and the bridge over the lines was a fun place to dwell and be on it when the steam train used to go underneath it and I was covered in a blanket of steam and smoke. Diesels were never the same - you just choked! Gas lamps were lit on the station and surrounding footpaths every evening except Sunday when no trains ran and that was a spooky time when I used to run all the way there and back along the long, shadowy and occasionally steep snickets (enclosed footpaths or some call them tenfoots) that intertwined the whole area.

The old red LNER (London and North East Railway) signs with white painted lettering stood at each of the little crossings across the line warning trespassers of being fined 10 shillings (50 pence today). The main crossing gates were still open and closed by a crossing keeper who used a huge wheel like a ship's wheel to stop traffic with the gates. Signals were still raised and lowered by hand by the crossing keeper and the oil lamps were put out on the signal every evening before dark by the station porter to light the signal so the engine driver could see if the signal was red (in a horizontal position) or green (in a raised position). Red fire buckets full of sand lined the station, bedding plants in borders brightened the place up and old wooden trolleys, probably from the Victorian age still littered the platform in the hope of the carriage of luggage to the ticket office entrance. You couldn't get on the train or off it without a ticket (no purchase on trains in those days) and there were ladies and gentleman's waiting rooms.

I can still vividly recall the smell of oil on the tracks. On Saturdays I think it was, there was a release of racing pigeons on the platform, dozens of baskets opened at the same time and hundreds of birds released doing circles in the air before disappearing on the long journey toward home - one of natures mysterious miracles.

Here's today's story (thanks to Anita)

A young couple wanted to join the church, the vicar told them, 'We have a special requirement for new member couples. You must abstain from sex for one whole month.' The couple agreed, but after two-and-a-half weeks returned to the Church. When the vicar ushered them into his office, the wife was crying and the husband was obviously very depressed.

'You are back so soon...Is there a problem?' the vicar enquired.

'We are terribly ashamed to admit that we did not manage to abstain from sex for the required month.' The young man replied sadly. The vicar asked him what happened.

'Well, the first week was difficult... However, we managed to abstain through sheer willpower. The second week was terrible, but with the use of prayer, we managed to abstain. However, the third week was unbearable. We tried cold showers, Prayer, reading from the Bible... anything to keep our minds off Carnal Thoughts.

'One afternoon my wife reached for a can of paint and dropped it. When she bent over to pick it up, I was overcome with lust and I just had my way with her right then and there. It was lustful, loud, passionate sex. It lasted for over an hour and when we were done we were both drenched in sweat,' admitted the man, shamefacedly.

The vicar lowered his head and said sternly, 'You understand this means you will not be welcome in our church.'

'We know.' said the young man, hanging his head, 'We're not welcome at Homebase either.'

Hope you are enjoying your weekend.

Chat soon

Ta-ra

Number 29

This must be the first weekend since perhaps this time last year where I can honestly say I have nothing planned, perhaps cutting the grass and that's it. I have pondered about sitting out, and enjoying the sun sheltered from the breeze and maybe listening to the FA Cup Final on the radio whilst enjoying the fresh air. Food has been bought in for the weekend and the car is already nice and clean. My wife has done the housework because she's been off this week and there's no washing and drying to do.

"A husband is what is left of the lover after the nerve has been extracted."
Helen Rowland.

So, this is a time perhaps I like most, taking the opportunity to relax, recharge the batteries, read, meditate and just chill out. Lazy? No I think I'm entitled now and then. One none energetic thing I will be doing is testing my memory again in meditation looking back to childhood, remembering smells, events, sounds, feelings, sights, people, home and whatever else comes to mind. My friend Shirley Ann says that most memory survives and is locked away somewhere and I guess that meditation really does allow recall to become easier and is certainly remarkably so in my case.

The large Victorian house - 'number 29' as the family remember it had surprisingly small gardens. The front was perhaps only eight feet deep, concreted with a small bird bath in the centre surrounded by four standard roses in neat square holes in the grey utility ground. London pride and cotoneaster grew on the edges and the low wall with sandstone top was convenient to sit upon and chat to whoever was around. The iron railings which must have once stood proud on the wall had clearly been taken during the war years to help with the effort against the enemy and surely built spitfires or tanks.

Mr Western lived next door, a former war hero who sadly decayed into dementia and alcoholism in his dotage. His back garden was untended and knee deep in nettles, always an unpleasant experience when trying to retrieve one's tennis or cricket ball. The back gardens were shallow too, perhaps twenty feet at most with borders made of sandy soil, made gritty over the years through dumping ash from the many fires in the house in the garden. A small home made concrete fish pond stood lonely in the corner of the garden with a lily that was too big for it and indeed dangerous for goldfish because my father, a fisherman had once brought home a pike he had caught in a plastic bag that he thought was dead with a view to feeding the cat, Thomas. The pike miraculously had survived the journey and refused to die and lived out its life in the pond for several years, feeding on goldfish and goodness knows what else - stray curious cats and birds landing on the lily pads to drink I suspect.

Although there was a toilet and separate bathroom in the house with a huge zinc bath, there was also an 'outhouse' and coal house next to it. The toilet had to have a little Kelly lamp lit in the winter to stop the water freezing. The coal house had coal and coke for different fires which for some reason were peculiar for what they would or wouldn't burn. The back garden was too small to play ball games in and friends and I would play cricket and football in the back ten-foot (because it was ten-foot wide) using Mr Kirkness's garage door as a goal or wicket.

This is the first and probably the last picture you will ever see of me, and that's as a young boy, seven or eight years old, proudly stood in the back garden of 'number 29' with Grandfather, a blind World War 1 veteran with one leg, the other having been shot off in the trenches. Spiritually, I know he's still around my family today even though we have moved many miles away; spirits have no sense of distance! A great background detail is Mr Western's 'outhouse' and coal house!

"Instead of getting married again, I'm going to find a woman I don't like and just give her a house!"
Rod Stewart, musician.

Chat soon

Ta-ra!