10th November 2013

      Today was Remembrance Sunday. D went to the service at Ashcroft and I went to the one at the war memorial by Cirencester Parish Church of St John. It's been a lovely autumn day and the setting by the magnificent church was beautiful and very atmospheric. I felt strongly a sense of the continuance of history. I've seen so many sepia photographs of others at the same ceremony in earlier years. History runs through time like a stream, and we each go with the flow for our allotted time. These days I feel like an old trout wondering if he'll make it again next year.

      Remembrance, or Poppy Day, means a lot to me. Apart from the old sepia photographs, I can remember taking pictures myself of the war memorial service in Burford back in the sixties. My father, all six feet six of him, was always there too. He was easy to spot in the crowd for obvious reasons. A wonderful man, he was loved by all the family and many others far beyond. He was a great role model for us and one we try to emulate, especially my brother and I. Whether we succeed to any degree is for others to judge.

      I try to wear both a red and a white poppy at this time of year, the red one lest I forget, and the white one because I believe that most, but not all, wars are unnecessary and we should strive more for peace.

I don't believe that red poppies are in any way a glorification of war. I knew many men and women who experienced the hell of war, most in WWI or WWII, and almost all thought it was wicked madness. In my experience I believe at least two major wars have been fought, falsely, in my name to my everlasting regret. They should never have happened and have been a terrible waste of lives. 

      Money raised by the British Legion through the sale of red poppies is used to help military families who have suffered as a result of war through death or injury. And I understand that they help them for life, not just while there's a vote in it.

      I feel that wars have made us more enemies than friends. I vote, I tweet, I wear two poppies, I could and must do more.

Enough of war.

Today has been a good day. My old uneasy companion Angina has been largely absent and I have managed to walk both into and back from town. I've taken a picture or two. Here's one ...

Every autumn this tree in the Abbey Grounds in Cirencester is glorious and I take a picture of it. This year is no exception. 

9th November 2013

Another good day. Very little angina, enabling me to walk briskly into town with D, do a little shopping, have coffee and walk home again. All in all about two miles of walking. Two days ago I could hardly walk to the the bus stop, and had to take the bus both ways. Crazy, and I never know, until I get up, whether I'm in for a good day or a bad day.

All this worries me, and I hope that my cardiac consultant can shed some light on this condition when I see him at the end of the month and offer a solution. I've had my three score and ten, but I was still hoping for another decade or so. But then I think of people like John Thaw, one of my favourite actors, gone way before his time at sixty-three, and my brother-in-law who dropped dead at sixty-seven. I'm lucky, and blessed.

This morning was wet and dreary, but I like to get my photographic fix each day. It might be anything that attracts me visually, although often I have to search for it. You often hear people say they have to get into the 'zone' before things happen, and it's like that with photography. Often, at first glance, there seems to be nothing worth photographing but, if you're not distracted, you can sometimes get into the zone. Suddenly you're seeing pictures everywhere. This morning was like that, grey, dripping wet and dreary low light all around, and then I started to see photographically, and here is one of the pictures I then took. Alright, it's not Henri Cartier-Bresson, but it'll do. 

A few drops of rainwater on a kale leaf. Nature is beautiful if we just take the time to look. And that's the secret, isn't it? As W. H. Davies wrote,

"What is life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?"

Every artist and photographer knows this, but we can all benefit from it. There's just too much hurry out of habit in today's world. Take it easy.

8th November 2013

I decided today to run two themes in this blogspot of mine, one a collection of memories, primarily for my children so that they know where their Dad came from culturally, and the other a record of my day to day thoughts. We'll see where this takes us, or maybe just me ...

Let's get started. Today we've been to Cheltenham on the bus. We love the bus. Our concessions mean we are delivered to the town centre free of charge. At least the general public have been spared we 'oldies' clogging up the road in our car and using a precious parking space. This is a relaxing day, so it's coffee, cake and a mooch around Waterstones, followed by lunch at La Tasca. It's consistently good, and we love choosing a selection of old favourites and  new interesting dishes. 

Another advantage of bus travel is that I'm free to have a glass wine with my tapas. 

I'm feeling good.

Luckily.

Not every day is a good day. Until a few weeks ago I was feeling good most days. By following medical and nutritional advice, I had made encouraging progress since my heart attack three years ago. I was walking up to three miles daily, enjoying two exercise sessions a week, expertly led by Denise and, frankly, feeling a bit smug about my progress.

Then one morning I woke up feeling awful. 

I found my daily walk to town was hard going, and had to get home by bus. I was devastated. Where had all my good progress gone? And I was no better as time went on.

I went back to my doctor for advice.

To avoid being even more boring, I was put on the highest dose of my drugs and await an appointment with a cardiac consultant later this month. To be continued ...

But I do have good days among all the bad ones, and today has been such a one. I've enjoyed it, despite the rain.

It rained in Cheltenham today.

Lunch at La Tasca: Salad, anchovies, pork belly, beans, chicken, patatas bravas ...

School

I hated school, from the first day to the last. 

It's not that I want to burden you with my problems, but you'll be doing me a favour if you let me iimagine you're going to read what follows. But I'll never know, will I? So if you'd rather go off and make a cup of tea or watch paint dry, please feel free. At the very least you'll have made an old man imagine he's happy having got it off his chest.

So now you know. I hated school.

Hate is a strong word and not one I use lightly. But the feeling was so strong in me that I still feel it strongly over sixty years later. The old saying, 'Best years of your life ...' were never so wrong as in my case.

Up until around the age of five my life was idyllic, free every day to roam the farm and do whatever I liked. I was, effectively, the only child in the hamlet. Babies started arriving as time went by, but I was so much older I took very little notice of them. I had total freedom within the life of the farm. 

Then one day my mother mentioned something about school. I was not sure what it was, but soon learned that I was going to it on Monday. Next I was taken to our local clothes outfitter in Lechlade, 'Tommy' Powells, to be dressed up in smart clothes, not something I liked or was used to wearing. Back home I was given my own red Oxo tin, with an elastic band to keep the lid on. And this was to be carried in my new leather satchel. I was not at all sure what was happening, and then suddenly it was Monday morning. 

I was dressed in all my new gear, given my satchel and Oxo tin containg an egg and lettuce sandwich and an apple, and put in the car. Off Mum and I went to Clanfield. All I could think about was what was what was going on, and when were we going home so that I could play boats and harbours in our brook?

We parked on the grreen in Clanfield and Mum led me along to this place called Clanfield Primary School. At the gate we were met by a formidable lady whom my mother called Miss Kinchin. Looking back, I think she was a really a kindly woman, but with her gruff voice and commanding tone she came across to me as terrrifying. 

"Now you run along with Miss Kninchin," said Mum, "and she will look afer you. I'll be back to collect you this afternoon."

"This afternoon?! Aren't I comiing back with you?" 

"No dear, not now. You go with Miss Kinchin. She will look after you and give you lots of interesting things to do. I'll be back for you at teatime.

The word 'Teatime' hit me like a sock full of cold wet sand.

Interesting things to do? I had a million intresting things to do on the farm, every day!

Mum turned and went, and as I gazed with horror at her retreating back Miss Kinchin's hand took mine very firmly and I was marched across the playground towards the door of doom. 

Inside, Miss Kinchin took me to a seat and desk, row three fourth back, and told me to sit there, stay there and be quiet. Other children slouched sullenly to take their seats in the other desks aound me. 

"What is all this?" I thought. "What's going on?'

The room was large, with high windows so that you could not see outside. It was filled with rows of desks facing forwards towards a high desk which, like a judge's bench in court, commanded the room from its raised position. Miss Kinchin was the judge. 

"Now," she pronounced, "We'll take the register." She opened a large book on her desk and, pen in hand, called out, "Atkins!'

"Here Miss"

"Albright!"

"Here Miss"

Thank goodness my name was Wise. By the time it came up I had learned the routine.

"Yes Miss"

"It's 'Here Miss', and you must learn to speak up louder. Now children, I want you to meet your new classmate. His name is Patrick Wise. He'll be with us from now on. Stand up Wise."

All eyes in the room turned to stare at me. Coming from a hamlet where I was effectively the only child, I was shocked at being stared at by so many. I shrivelled and wanted to die.

So started my school life.

(The sorry tale to be continued ... )

It Came From The Sky ~

Late, one clear Spring night in 1944 , when Patrick was almost three years old, something extraordinary happened on the farm. Something beyond his understanding, but really exciting.

He went to bed as usual. His mother warmed his bed with a warming pan, read him a favourite Hans Christian Anderson story, kissed him goodnight and blew out his bedside candle.
Good night.
Sleep tight.
Don't let the bugs bite.
As he lay there, listening to the sounds of the farm at night slipping in through the open window, the cry of a calf, the comforting muffled moo of its mother and the shoosh of the wind eddying through the high green crowns of the stately elms, his thoughts tumbled over tinder-boxes and fearsome dogs with eyes as big as saucers.

He didn't want to go to sleep, but he did eventually.

And so most nights slipped by until the cockerel crowed, but not this night. 

It was still dark when he was wakened by a loud crash. 

Dogs barked, footsteps crunched in the gravel yard below his open bedroom window. Low voices muttered tersely, but what woke the entire household was the fact that one voice suddenly shouted very loudly.

"Bloody hell! I've bust my bloody leg!"

Patrick's Dad was at his bedroom window shouting into the darkness,

"Who's there? What's going on! Who are you?!"

"Sorry Guv'. I've broken my bloody leg on your roof. Help me quick, please. I can't move and I'm in a soddin' rose bush!"

"Hang on! I'm coming down", shouted Patrick's dad, and stumbled downstairs in the darkness, trying to pull on his trousers on fumble for the stair door handle. We had no electricity in those days and unexpected night alerts, usually to tend to sick farm animals, were attended to with the aid of a hurricane oil lamp. No time for that now.

By the time his father he heard his dad opening the door into the front garden, more voices came from the darkness, and matches flickered.

Patrick was at his window by then, trying to follow the action.

He was an infant, with no knowledge or concept of war. He knew we had soldiers, and liked the ones he met. They were camped scattered, all along the lanes where he lived, in khaki and brown coloured tents covered in wavy designs. His mother sold them eggs now and then, or a culled chicken, and they tousled his hair or gave him spent metal bullet jackets and showed him how to whistle with them. He was quite good at it and usually had one or two in his pocket.

He could tell that these voices in the darkness belonged to soldiers, and one of them was badly hurt.

Considering what he later realised was waiting for them in their near future, he likes to think to this day that that soldier's broken leg may have saved his life.

By now, the whole front yard was alive with voices and activity. Small lights flickered here and there throughout the front paddocks. 

Patrick was excited, and after a while he crept downstairs. 

His mum was making tea by the bucketful in the kitchen as an officer directed a constant stream of soldiers from the kitchen table, s left, and Dad closed the outside door. All was quiet and we went back to bed, but I don't think anyone slept.

At first light. as soon as he heard his parents stirring, Patrick was up and looking out of his bedroom window at a fantastic scene. Several large army trucks had pulled into the normally quiet front paddocks, and soldiers were milling around them loading boxes and bags. In the farm yard more soldiers were forming into ranks and being bossed around by a sergeant. Busy, busy, busy everywhere, but that was not all. Nearly all the tall elms ash and sycamore trees visible from the farmhouse windows were festooned with parachutes, draped loosely over the branches like seaweed on rocks.

Patrick watched spell bound as men extended special folding ladders from lorries up, up, up into the trees, and soldiers climbed up and down, reaching to retrieve the parachutes. The whole scene was filled with fast but orderly action as, in what seemed no time at all, the last pack was heaved over a lorry tailgate and the last rank of men marched out of the yard to climb aboard the last truck. The officer called at the front door to say thank you to Patrick's Mum and Dad, then looked up at the small boy in the window to wink and wave goodbye as he climbed into the lorry cab with the driver.

And then they, their parachutes, bags and boxes, were gone, as though it had only happened in the imagination. Had it happened? The flattened paddock grass and the pile of cups in the kitchen sink said yes.
And so did the broken slates on the front lawn.

Years later, old Patrick looks back occasionally on this amazing and unexpected event. Now he knows what it was all about. We did not realise it at the time, but this was Spring 1944 and D-Day was approaching in June of that year. These men were practising being dropped over occupied France at low level in darkness, many to their deaths. Did the sergeant with the broken leg escape being in the first waves, due to his injury? Did he ever recover enough for active service? Who knows?

There is a post-script. Let's rejoin young Patrick.

The year had moved into late summer, and harvest time. War was raging on Europe's mainland, but the young lad knew nothing of this. He was more interested in the old Fordson tractor his father had bought for the farm, and grain harvest was in full swing. This day it was the wheat in 'Paulings', the field that stretched from behind the farmhouse to the border with Langford parish. The sun was shining, it was a good farming day. Suddenly Bill, the tractor driver, spotted something in the crop. Reaping stopped, and everyone went to look. It was a silk khaki parachute. It was obviously one that had been missed from the Springtime parachute drop.
By then, all the soldiers had gone. What to do?
It was months after the event so, rightly or wrongly, we kept it, and it was handed over to my mother. She was overjoyed. What a bonus! Out came her Singer sewing machine and,  rather like Betty Hutton's famous "Sewing Machine Song",  every night for weeks it was a 'sew and a sew and a stitch and a stitch' until we all had lovely silk pyjamas, nighties, pillow cases and goodness knows what else. Remember, this was wartime and clothes were in short supply. Luxury amidst austerity! Or at least a little taste of it.

Pondering the Universe

I am the old man.

I am the boy.

We are called Patrick.

Old Patrick has explored worlds and vast reaches of space shown to him by scientists and writers over the years, but still is left pondering the questions he thought about as young Patrick. How big is space? What was there before time?

One summer's evening, as purple twilight darkened to velvet night, man and boy walked out, out of the farmhouse where they lived in the flat bottom lands of the Thames Valley, and away from the pools of tungsten light falling from its windows. Out to the far end of the paddock. To the edge of darkness.

Gradually Patrick's young eyes grew accustomed to the night, revealing the vast diamond dome stretching from horizon to horizon. Slowly he turned through a complete circle, gazing up at the night sky in all its stunning beauty. 

A noise. A drone. A plane flies across the sparkling necklace of the Milky Way, flashing rubies and emeralds. 

Patrick's world was full of boundaries. Hedges, ditches, walls, rivers, hills and mountains. 

But above his head he saw none. 

He saw the Moon.

He saw the Sun.

He saw Saturn, Jupiter and Mars. And beyond them our Milky Way galaxy. 

He even, after studying astronomer Patrick Moore's books, could see further and make out the smudged thumbprint of Amdromeda, a sister galaxy speeding towards us. And the books talked about millions of galaxies past her which lay in the abyss beyond human imagination.

But where was the edge? The boundary?

Even if there was a wall around everything, what would there be on the other side of the wall?

Even the books couldn't help with that one.

They talked of Einstein, of curling dimensions folded in on themselves.

This is where Patrick turned to another of his sources, Carl Sagan, who said,

"Not only is the Universe stranger than we understand, it is stranger than we CAN understand."

In a way, this was comforting to Patrick. Out here on the edge of understanding, he found that even the great minds faltered. 

Patrick's life still lay before him. Great discoveries were being made, more and more as time went by. This amazing show would run and run. 

Would they ever discover Higg's boson?

Old Patrick smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tales of a Charity Legacy Officer

Now and again, during my time working in the Legacy offices of two major charities, Oxfam and NSPCC, I came across lovely stories. This is one. I don't know how true the story is, but I like to think it is.

Walt Disney employed a woman, let's call her Ida, who worked as the cleaner in his personal apartment in Hollywood. She was very good at her job and kept the place spotless. He appreciated that a great deal. However, while she was pleased to have the job and to work in nice surroundings, she thought he was a mean old man. Her reason was this. 

Every Christmas Walt Disney would give his staff a bonus.

For most of them it came to several hundred dollars, but all he gave to Ida each year was a fancy looking document. 'Take good care of this', he would tell her. Later, at home, she would call her son John and complain, 'I suppose he thinks it would look good on my wall', she would say. 'Phuh! Mean old devil'.

Each year she stuffed these papers away in a drawer, thinking that at least Walt Disney's autograph on them might be worth something if she really needed a few dollars in an emergency. 

Years later Walt Disney died. And Ida's job died with him. Older now, and no job, her means were modest so John suggested she go to live near him. They found a small apartment that was suitable, and Ida prepared to move. John went over to help her clear her old house. They toiled away and were getting the job done well on schedule, when John came through from the back room waving a handful of the Walt Disney papers.

'Mother, are these the papers Mr Disney gave you that you complained about?'

'Yes, dear. I suppose I should sell them now. A few extra dollars would be useful.'

'Yes, mother. I think you might well,' replied John, 'these are Disney shares and at a rough estimate I think you are worth about three quarters of a million dollars!'