a little memoir (x-posted to BR2 class list)
from my childhood in england before and during the
second world war:
the other night, when i was musing on the element of Air, i recalled almost all the
details of the meadow behind my house, my favorite place in the
world as a child, where the aeroplane was parked. the meadow had been
a tennis club before the war, then a training ground for pilots, then
simply left vacant, at which point the neighborhood kids, especially
the ones lucky enough to live in my building, took it over.
clockwise from the wooden gate which led from our back garden with the
pear and cherry-plum trees: the holly trees in the corner, then the
lane down to the locked front gate, then the old tennis club building,
wrecked and abandoned since the beginning of the war (but a great
place to climb in through the glass-less ground-level windows), then
the overgrown tennis courts, then the PLANE: a ragged gloster
gladiator two-seater biplane, canvas-covered, abandoned by the RAF,
and perfect to climb on and pretend to pilot; then the little seat
among the birch trees which was my throne (and behind it the fence
which backed on to the playground of the school i was later to attend
before being sent off to boarding school), then the victory garden
with its enormous cabbages and marrows, then the little spot under the
trees next the gate where i would take my cucumber-and-Oxo sandwiches
and milky tea and have an al fresco afternoon picnic. and in the
middle, tall grass, with blue blue skies and puffy white clouds which
make this a place of AIR for me, and will forever.
it was a wonderful playground for me, now vanished in the built-up
suburb which harrow weald has become in recent years. harrow weald is
no longer a sleepy little english village, but part of greater london.
but the wealdstone is still out in front of the local pub, formerly
the red lion. the wealdstone was an ancient sacred stone, and the
nearby village of wealdstone was named after it; also, harrow-on-the-
hill, for some time the site of a famous boys' school, is also
anciently the site of an pre-roman pagan temple.
one thing i miss in the united states is the amount of history still
evident in the stones and ancient monuments of the british isles. i
know there's just as much history here, but so little of it is known
before the european incursions. a sense of history is a gift...
but even though the history of the hill i live on now is unwritten, i
have a sense that this too is sacred ground. and it's wonderful to see
the occasional coyote and the ever-present hawks and ravens. and to
see the ocean in all its moods...well, i will have much to dwell on
when i start thinking of Water.
second world war:
the other night, when i was musing on the element of Air, i recalled almost all the
details of the meadow behind my house, my favorite place in the
world as a child, where the aeroplane was parked. the meadow had been
a tennis club before the war, then a training ground for pilots, then
simply left vacant, at which point the neighborhood kids, especially
the ones lucky enough to live in my building, took it over.
clockwise from the wooden gate which led from our back garden with the
pear and cherry-plum trees: the holly trees in the corner, then the
lane down to the locked front gate, then the old tennis club building,
wrecked and abandoned since the beginning of the war (but a great
place to climb in through the glass-less ground-level windows), then
the overgrown tennis courts, then the PLANE: a ragged gloster
gladiator two-seater biplane, canvas-covered, abandoned by the RAF,
and perfect to climb on and pretend to pilot; then the little seat
among the birch trees which was my throne (and behind it the fence
which backed on to the playground of the school i was later to attend
before being sent off to boarding school), then the victory garden
with its enormous cabbages and marrows, then the little spot under the
trees next the gate where i would take my cucumber-and-Oxo sandwiches
and milky tea and have an al fresco afternoon picnic. and in the
middle, tall grass, with blue blue skies and puffy white clouds which
make this a place of AIR for me, and will forever.
it was a wonderful playground for me, now vanished in the built-up
suburb which harrow weald has become in recent years. harrow weald is
no longer a sleepy little english village, but part of greater london.
but the wealdstone is still out in front of the local pub, formerly
the red lion. the wealdstone was an ancient sacred stone, and the
nearby village of wealdstone was named after it; also, harrow-on-the-
hill, for some time the site of a famous boys' school, is also
anciently the site of an pre-roman pagan temple.
one thing i miss in the united states is the amount of history still
evident in the stones and ancient monuments of the british isles. i
know there's just as much history here, but so little of it is known
before the european incursions. a sense of history is a gift...
but even though the history of the hill i live on now is unwritten, i
have a sense that this too is sacred ground. and it's wonderful to see
the occasional coyote and the ever-present hawks and ravens. and to
see the ocean in all its moods...well, i will have much to dwell on
when i start thinking of Water.