You know that moment when.......

by John Galuschka

How taxing on the brain is this? Have you ever been tasked with producing a piece of creative writing for a compilation of family members’ musings? Actually, thinking about it now, I know that at least my first readers probably have. It’s a pig isn’t it? If. like me, you come from a vaguely mainstream Protestant-by-proxy background, you too are probably wringing your hands and doubting that you have anything interesting to say.

I have done many interesting things –, honestly! - but do I want you to read about it? Probably not. Although not quite a black sheep, I’ve always imagined myself as being “too cool for school”, a bit of a square peg if you like.

I suppose that it is the lot of the square peg to at least try to fit into the round hole. Some square pegs will always try to fit in, whittling away at the shape of their personality, betraying the essential nature of what made them a different shape in the first place. Other more interesting square pegs try to change the shape of their hole, struggling constantly. Raging at the injustice of a system, these square pegs have started on a journey. Most churn on, chipping at their confines; some, not many, maybe the dangerous ones, just don’t care about fitting in. They explore and recognise their difference and enjoy it.

Standing back and seeing the “matrix” of repeating patterns ultimately feels like a still moment of clarity.

The turn of the second millennium was a turning point of attitudes for many people: it was like a million internalised little film directors in our heads demanding a better script. It felt like a time of hope and change. For me, I questioned my surroundings and saw how past generations didn’t affect them. All I saw was noble, proud and honourable working class people marking out grooves in the pavements and roads, on a journey to houses they couldnt afford and jobs they didn’t enjoy, for fulfilment they couldn’t understand or hope to achieve.

The anger of youth matured in unexpected ways. Having failed to be a musician, I could at least turn my hand to making words rhyme – you could hardly call it poetry. I wrote it in hope in 2001, and it proved prophetic.

Reading between the lines, you may intuit that the decision that shocked all my friends - leaving a small, rural, not-very-interesting market town where I knew everybody – took me to people and places where Iife looked quite different.

Agenda, May 2001

Black is not a colour it’s a shade that stains my soul,

The darkest grimmest misfit in the prison of this hole.

Depth is not an attitude, it’s a measure of your life,

The sum of your experience, the result of fire and ice.

Those of us who speak the least are those who know the most

Because depth is wordless wisdom, as silent as a ghost.

Darkness is not a lifestyle choice, it’s a joyless state of mind

but even I have come to learn it can’t rain all the time.

So here then is something that really makes me larf -

The shallow children of the night who think they’re deep and dark.

The ones who herd like sheep to fall into the scene;

The ones who think they’re pretty, the vain that strut and preen;

The ones who need to be told what to watch, to read, to hear,

As though individuality was something that they fear;

The blind that lead the blind to sacrifice their flesh,

Falling at the altar to worship emptiness.

Open up your mind, and don’t be scared of change.

Who cares what others think, take a risk be brave, be strange.

Trust in all your feelings, for they can never lie.

Emotions have to be expressed or peace of mind will die.

Belief in fate and destiny imply you have no say.

Only you should shape our life, so shape it your own way.

I push myself to speak of this, but love is truly deep.

Deny this to your hearts my friends and the pain will never sleep.

So revel in the sparkle that glistens in your eyes

Know that it’s where real depth lives, where true emotion lies.

So kneel before the physical, call forth the inner beast.

Dance now like a devil and upon the pink you’ll feast.

So celebrate the red, my Friends, that courses through your veins.

Cast off the veil of misery that holds your joy in chains.

I am the one who walks alone, I’ve known no other way.

It’s not the way I planned it but THIS DOG WILL HAVE HIS DAY.

Letter from home

from Muriel Greenaway

Gerald was taken prisoner at Wormhoudt (scene of a massacre by the Waffen SS) in May 1940, and the family knew nothing of his fate until 2^nd September. On 21^st November, he received his first letter from home.

Swindon

3^rd Sept. 1940

Our Dearest Gerald,

Thank God our prayers have been answered. At last we received your letter on 2^nd of Sept. and the field card you signed with your address on today. We are all well, and what a day we had running around excitedly to tell people you were safe. We let Marion know by sending a message with her sister as soon as we could the same afternoon. Mum looks years younger since Monday. Oh, Gerald, her faith has been simply wonderful and she has been so brave, all the time bearing up in front of us all. Whatever she was like when on her own, she never gave way in the day. When Dad saw your letter it completely broke him down for a while but of course joy never hurts one, and he soon recovered. .

Colin is happy in his service duties somewhere in England. We sent him a telegram as soon as your letter arrived. Reg is working away from home, but gets home every night. We have an evacuee, so I am a mother of sorts at last!

Everything in the garden has been lovely this year. The sweet peas and pansies we planted the day you came to tea have bloomed and bloomed and do you know even that seemed to give me a little more faith. Some days when was feeling extra down and out, I would go out and look at them and somehow feel better.

Let’s hope the war will soon be over and everyone may return to their own homes.

Since hearing from you we have done nothing else but chatter about what you shall have when you come home. Mum has never stopped saving for you. Dad still potters about just the same, digging the same bit of ground over and over again.

He manager of your shop nearly danced for joy when we told him about you, and called out to his staff, “Hear that everybody? Gerald is safe!” Everyone you could possibly think of wishes to be remembered to you.

Of course we shall send you anything the regulations permit as soon as possible. This seems a very poor letter to send you dear, but I must not put anything that is likely to be crossed out.

So cheerio and God bless you and help you to keep your chin up. We are always thinking of you.

Best of love from

Your loving Sis and Bro

Muriel and Reg.

Muriel, Reg, Colin and Gerald on holiday circa 1926

Repatriation of a prisoner of war

by Gerald Maller

I clambered aboard the Dakota clutching my home made holdall with the few possessions I had managed to hold onto over the years. The memory of the flight is rather vague but I do remember flying unhindered over the Rhine, not realising how many lives had been lost by troops fighting across it. The bomb bays were empty, and there were no windows to wave goodbye from, only belts of ammunition weaving round the fuselage. It must have been a complex operation reloading.

Just as I finished eating my first white bread sandwich for five years, the gunner in the centre turret asked if I would like to see the white cliffs of Dover. I couldn't get up quickly enough. What a sight! My heart turned over. Then, to crown it all, Winston Churchill’s voice came crackling over the radio. with his victory in Europe speech.

After landing at Westcott Airfield near Oxford, we were taken by truck to Beaconsfield , where, once our particulars had been taken, we were off to the clothing store for new uniforms. My old one had lasted over fiv years, so it had lots of memories. Volunteer ladies were on hand to sew on badges. It was lovely to meet smiling faces and to know they were enjoying helping us. We were extremely thankful for their dedication.

Next morning, money in my pocket, train warrant stowed away, I boarded a truck to the station. My memory of the train journey is dim but I do recall walking to the bus stop only to find it had been moved. At that point, I realised that my nerves were in a shocking state. In my brand new uniform I must have looked like a raw recruit. When I asked a lady if this was the right stop for Rodbourne. She said “Yes. Are you on leave?” I said “Yes.”That was the extent of my first conversation in Swindon. I felt embarrassed waiting, but the bus arrived at last. I gave the conductress half a crown and she gave two and six in change. [A half a crown was worth two shillings and sixpence – Ed.] I was too embarrassed to say anything, but found out later that thy did not charge troops.

It was about a quarter of a mile home from the bus stop and it was very eerie seeing that nothing had changed. Walking past a local shop where I used to buy sweets as a boy, I saw a lady I knew and said “Hello”. Whether she remembered me I couldn’t be sure.

At home, the front gate was missing (taken away for the war effort) but Mum heard the front door and flew down the passage, hugged and squeezed me before I could put my bags down. Dad, beaming all over his face but with a quiver in his voice said. “Hello Son”, which covered a hundred words.

My sister called with her four-year-old daughter, who said her party piece perfectly: “Hello Uncle Gerald. Ever so pleased to see you.” We have been good friends ever since.

Gerald and his niece Pauline

Our Mouse Trap

by Colin Maller

The floors of the house, except for the scullery, bathroom and lavatory were covered in linoleum which was kept polished; small carpets or mats were laid in front of the fires and by the side of beds. There were no lights u[stairs and we went to bed by candlelight.

Because of the construction of the terrace it was impossible to control the incursion of mice and insects, which moved under the floors from one house to another. All food was kept in tins and jars and large earthenware basins and lids.  

We always had traps set for mice and when the mice became wary of the traps we made our own out of a ruler projecting from a shelf, some cheese stuck on the end, and a three- quarters full bucket of water underneath. It never failed.

Mother's Home Brew

by Colin Maller

After church on summer evenings the whole family would go for walks through the district. In season we would note where the best wild fruits and flowers were.

Mother made homemade wine out of everything that grew: dandelions, cowslips, rose hips, elder flowers end elder berries, blackberries, sloes, wheat and barley, rhubarb and potatoes, apples, pears and gooseberries. she boiled the fruit, or whatever, in the copper and then ladled it out into a large earthenware container.A piece of yeast from the baker was added and it was left to ferment.

After a while it was strained through a cloth and bottled, but not corked. It continued to 'work' for a long time and the bottles had to be topped up. The dregs from the pan were thrown onto the garden and the sparrows came down to  eat their fill, and became too drunk to fly away.

Mother would sit in the chair and say, "I don't knw what's come over me, I feel quite dizzy."

Mother was against drinking and alcohol, and refused to believe that anything she made was other than a cordial When Father went to the club for a pint of beer, she was displeased, but she would ive us children a small tumbler of her wine to go to bed. I'm sure we had more alcohol in our blood than poor old Dad when he came home

When the bottles were finally corked they were put in the cupboard under the stairs. If they had been corked too early there would be a big bang - usually in the middle of the night -  and we would open the door to find the cupboard spattered with wine and broken glass.

Father would say, "That must have been some potent brew, Mother." But Mother would keep her own counsel and just clean up the mess,