It strikes me that I haven't posted any old family photos in this series for a while. To compensate, here's a real favourite of mine from 1961. There's absolutely nothing that I don't like about this shot. The swan stretching in anticipation, Mum delicately proffering a piece of bread and me craning forward to get a better look at the situation. The whole scene is brilliantly captured by Dad. I'm not certain of the location, but I'd put money on it being somewhere in the vicinity of Wanstead Flats.
Here's a photo taken on June 18th 1955 - 66 years ago today. Mum and Dad, newly wed, being greeted with a storm of confetti outside St Andrew's Church, situated on the Barking Road in Plaistow, East London. They enjoyed a long and happy marriage until Dad passed away very suddenly in 2007, with Mum re-joining him in 2010. It was only when clearing my parents' house that I found their wedding photos up in the loft, buried in a box of general family ephemera. I'd never seen them before. I've previously shared my absolute favourite of the bunch, a beautiful shot taken at the alter (here) and whereas that one captures the solemnity of their vow-exchanging, today's example really exudes the communal joy and happiness of their big day.
To soundtrack the photo is an appropriately titled slice of the Bakersfield Sound, produced by Buck Ram and released in 1961.
The first gift my Mum ever gave me was in April 1960 - it was of course the gift of life. Exactly 50 years later, her last gift to me was this pair of trainers. By April 2010, by then too ill to go out to the shops herself, Mum asked me what I'd like for my upcoming birthday. I mentioned that I'd been thinking about getting some new trainers, so she gave me the money and told me to buy myself a pair. I wore them out and about for over four years, before demoting them to indoor wear only. Now, a further three years down the line, the soles are so completely non-existent that I can't put it off any longer - the time has come for them to be dispatched. I know it sounds a bit daft, but I felt that I needed to take a photo of the trainers before they went. It's like a last direct connection with Mum is disappearing with them.
No songs about trainers spring to mind by way of a tribute to my loyal old pair, but I can offer 'Shoes' by Brook Benton. Written by Don Covay & George Soule, 'Shoes' was released as a single in 1970 and came into my possession by way of a second hand Atlantic Records soul compilation three or four years later. It's the only song I've ever owned by Brook Benton, but I surely do love it.
55 songs in 55 days - one for every year of
my life...so far.
In 2010 I hit 50. It was a year that began
with an unexpected work related triumph and
ended in deep personal sadness. In the
Spring, at the company's annual conference, I
was named store manager of the year, in front
of 3000 of my peers. The award was a complete
shock and came with a significant financial
reward. On the day, though grateful, my mind was elsewhere. After Christmas 2009,
Mum's condition had deteriorated sharply. Up
to then she'd still been quite active, but
now she couldn't walk more than a few steps
and was unable to leave the house unaided.
Her medication was no longer keeping her
illness under control.
Mum encouraging me to take my first steps in 1961.
I applied for a period of unpaid leave from
work, which was eventually granted, and spent the next 6 months staying with Mum for
4 or 5 days a week, while professional care was given by daily visits from District Nurses. I bought a collapsible
wheelchair that I could throw in the back of
the car and, when she felt up to it, took her
out for country drives, trips to the coast and pub lunches. Throughout this period her
health waxed and waned and she spent a number
of short spells in hospital, 'to recharge the batteries'. It was a
privilege and joy to be able to share so
much time with Mum during those months and when she passed away in
December, the grief was, and is,
exceptionally crushing.
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My
most prominent musical memory of
2010 is from Friday June 25th, when
Mark E.Smith strolled onstage at Glastonbury,
wearing one glove, to join Damon Albarn, half
The Clash and the rest of The Gorillaz for a
storming, glamtastic, 'Glitter Freeze' from
the 'Plastic Beach' LP. It's just perfect, from Mick Jones' welcoming, '..alright
Mark?', onwards. The only thing missing from
the performance is MES's classic spoken intro
to the studio version of the song - 'Where's
North from 'ere?'.
55 songs in 55 days - one for every year of
my life...so far.
When Dad's car failed its MOT at the end of
2006, the garage told him that it was beyond
repair and, after a few months cogitation, he
bought a tiny second hand Daewoo Matitz to
replace it. He was initially reluctant buy another car at all, finding driving increasingly
tiring, but at 76, unable to walk more than a
few steps and too stubborn to entertain the
idea of a motability scooter, a car was the
only way he could leave the house and go
anywhere with Mum, who had never learned to
drive.
Mum & Dad in 1953, two years before they were married.
One afternoon in May of 2007, after Dad had
pulled up in front of their house, Mum
started to get out of the car, but caught her
foot in the seat belt and rolled, rather than
fell, onto the grass. It was a drop of around
nine inches, but enough to break her hip.
Until this point Mum had been a very active 73 year old. As a result of
standard tests before her hip surgery, it was
discovered that Mum had Myeloma, failing
kidneys and a weak heart. Serious problems,
but manageable with medication, at least in the short term. Dad nursed Mum with great
tenderness as she convalesced after her hip operation, which was difficult for him given
his own poor mobility. He did his best to
hide it, but I could see that he was really
shaken by her accident and subsequent
diagnosis. By the November of that year,
however, she was recuperating well and was walking again with the aid of a
stick.
Riding a miniature railway. 1964
I was alone at work on the evening of
November 25th, cashing up at the end of a
hectic day in the coffee shop, when I got a call from Mum's
mobile phone. The line was very poor and it
took her several attempts to make me
understand what she was saying. Dad had been
taken ill. She was with him at Ipswich Hospital. Come quickly. Then we lost the
line. I was 45 miles away and didn't own a
car. I threw the takings into the safe and
headed to the train station, arriving just as a
train was pulling out. It was a 30 minute
wait until the next one. 45 minutes later my
phone rang again. It was Mum, the line even
worse than before. She was in the back of an ambulance.
Dad was being taken to Colchester Hospital, a
further 20 miles away. I heard the siren wailing in the background, then we lost the line again.
Their last holiday. Cromer 2005
I left the train at Ipswich and got a taxi
across town to pick up Dad's car from outside
my parents' house, then drove on to
Colchester. Throughout the train journey I'd
been trying to get hold of Mum again with no
joy. I tried and failed once more when I reached the car park at Colchester
Hospital. It had been nearly two hours since
I'd spoken to her and I had no idea where in
the hospital she and Dad were. The staff
at reception couldn't locate them at first
either, but were very helpful and phoned around various parts of the hospital for me. Finally an orderly called me
over and asked me to follow her. She ran off
quickly, which alarmed me, and I struggled to
keep pace. We ran down corridors and up
stairs - I'd never been inside Colchester
Hospital before and was completely lost. She
suddenly stopped running and opened an
unmarked door. Inside was a tiny room where
Mum sat in the corner cradling a cup of tea,
a nurse at her side. Mum looked up as I
entered the room. She was pale, wore a blank
expression and seemed terribly, terribly
small. She was in shock. As I stood in the
doorway, catching my breath and looking at Mum in a state of confusion, another nurse, standing to my right, put her hand on my shoulder. '.....I'm very sorry.....' she said, '.....we lost him
10 minutes ago.....' I was too late. Dad was gone.
It's Christmas Day 1961, my second festive
season, but the first at which I'm old enough
to sit up and take notice. I'm clearly having
a ball, while Mum keeps a close eye on me to
ensure I don't become too over-excited. We're
wearing paper hats, meaning the post-dinner
crackers have been pulled. Dad has no doubt
just finished the washing-up. The trusty
family radiogram is probably piping soothing
yuletide vibes into the room, via the BBC
Light Programme.
Charles Brown's 'Please Come Home For
Christmas', was first released in December
1960, but became a US hit 12 months later,
right about the time this photo was taken. I
doubt it made the Two Way Family Favourites
playlist though, more's the pity.
I took a sabbatical from work in 2010 and was able to spend
a great deal of time with Mum during the final months
of her life. When she felt up to it, I'd
throw the wheelchair into the back of the car
and we'd go for a pub lunch, visit a garden
centre or just take a drive in the country.
Increasingly though, the destination for our
outings was the hospital, for tests, X-Rays,
blood transfusions and, ever more regularly,
periods of in-patient care.
Unfortunately, when I think of Mum now, it's
often as she was in those last few months -
unwell, infirm, dying. Luckily though, there are many photos in the family archive to remind
me of how I should really remember her. Take
this one for example.
It's the Summer of 1964, we're on holiday at
Jaywick Sands and I'm a four year old scaredy cat on
the swings, barely moving and steadfastly refusing any offers of a push. Mum tries to
encourage me by going higher and higher
herself, showing me that it's safe. I'm at once excited and terrified, for her and for me. She's laughing, full of fun,
full of mischief, full of life. And this is
how I think of her today, the fourth
anniversary of her passing.
My Great-Aunt Maud was quite unwell and
confined to her bed, so to keep
her company, and her mind occupied, Mum and I
sat with her and sorted through all her old
photos. The year was 1969 and Mum knew only a
few of the faces staring out of the ancient
images, I of course, knew none at all. One by
one, we showed them to Aunt Maud and asked
her to put names to the anonymous faces, Mum
then wrote the details on the back of each
photo. Looking back, I'm sure Mum was worried
that we might lose Aunt Maud at the time, but
happily, not only did she recover from that
bout of ill health, she actually lived until
1983, by which time she was in her late 80's.
In the four years since Mum herself passed
away, I've often recalled that day sitting at
Aunt Maud's bedside. The reason? If I'm ever
looking through a box of old photos and
wonder who on Earth the subject of a
particular snap is, how they relate to my
family or where the shot was taken, I turn it over and invariably Mum has provided
me with some or all of the required
information, written on the reverse. You
might think that this isn't unusual, it's
something many of us have done with old
photos, but Mum took the idea a stage further. I've found that she
also added hidden handwritten notations to
several of her most treasured possessions. To
aid her own memory, or as information for me to find later?
I don't know.
Here are two examples. Meet Nobby and Rover, frail mantelpiece ornaments discovered packed away in Mum's loft, who've apparently been in the family since 1955, possibly given
as wedding gifts to my Parents.
Here's Mum, aged 15, enthusiastically
feeding pigeons near Trafalgar Square.
The year was 1948 and the horrors of war were a fading
memory, with the promise of good times just
around the corner. Dad was just around the
corner too. My parents met within two years
of this photo being taken and courted for the
next five, before marrying in 1955.
18 years later, at the same location, I'm not nearly so confident. Note the big empty space around me. Those pigeons could sense that I wasn't keen. Dad tried every trick in the book to make me interact with the blighters, but I was having none of it.
Mum: What, in this weather? It's the winter of 1963 you know, this snow won't clear until March and they'll still be banging on about how cold it is in 50 years time - you mark my words.
Me: Pleeease?
Mum: Alright then. I'll get a broom to clear the path.
Mum: Brrrr, it's cold out here. Are you all done up?
Me: (Impatiently) Yes Mum.
Mum: Ooh look, Dad wants to take a photo of us in the snow.
Me: OK, hurry up Dad!
Dad: (to Mum) Take one with me in it.
Mum: Pose nicely.....
Me: (Sigh) Alright just a quick one. I want to get on with riding my bike...oi Dad! Don't sit on it, you'll break it!
Me: Right, that's enough photos. Give me that broom Mum, I'm going to get this path clear. Honestly, if you want a job done you've got to do it yourself!
As the shutter clicked, capturing a happy couple in the East End of London exchanging their wedding vows, 225 miles to the North West a young man was enjoying his first day as a teenager. The date was June 18th, 1955. The couple getting married were my parents. The boy celebrating his 13th birthday was Paul McCartney.
The photo obviously means a lot to me on a personal level, but over and above that, I think it's such a wonderful image. It captures the moment beautifully, under what, I imagine, were difficult conditions with the poor light in the church and primitive technology of the day...also the bored choirboy is a nice touch! Today would have been my parent's 57th wedding anniversary. The last they celebrated together was their 52nd.
Macca, of course, hits 70 today. To try and sum up his life, work and influence in a few words would be futile...so let's have a song. 'Press' may be considered a minor work, but it makes me smile every time I hear it - particularly if I hear it in conjunction with the video which is an absolutely joyful celebration of McCartney in 'Thumbs Aloft' mode. To this day, if I'm on the London Underground, I never miss an opportunity to do the 'walking down a wind tunnel' bit!
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