As a child, my window into the world was small. Outside of parental and sibling supervision, I was restricted to exploring just the street that I grew up on, Seanor Lane, which Google just informed me is 293 metres long, or approximately 320 yards in old money. The Google also told me that there is only one ‘Seanor Lane’ in all of the UK. I always thought that it was a special place to grow up, and I now have confirmation of that fact.
My Dad was a storyteller, and what would always pull you in, was his attention to detail, and his ability to convincingly answer any clarifying questions that you might have, without taking a breath or blinking an eye. Whenever I think about his warm teasing and playfulness, I feel a smile breaking out across my face. I hope that you might feel the same way, as you read this.
In late 1983, I was living and working in Oldham, Lancs. My degree was in Computer Science, but after I’d graduated, I’d taken the first job that I could find (working for a shady US finance company), and that was what had taken me to Oldham.
I’m the youngest of 3 boys, with an 11 year age difference between me and my oldest brother, David. He was my first hero and role model. He was the prodigal son who never really returned home. Some people embrace their roots, while others run from them, reinventing themselves along the way. David died in 2011 at the age of 61, and this was an attempt at working through my feelings.
September is always a time of reflection for me, and in looking back, I realized that so many of the key transitions in my life have all taken place in September.
One of my earliest memories was when I was a page boy at my cousin Wendy’s wedding. I was 4 years old, and I clearly remember getting excited as the preparation for the wedding came together. I remember my ‘uniform’ of blue velvet trousers, white shirt, bow tie and black patent leather shoes with silver buckles.
For anyone who grew up in the UK in the 1960’s, weekly comics like ‘Beano’ and ‘Topper’ were a big part of your life. You’d wait all week for them, and then when they dropped through the letterbox on Saturday mornings, you’d read them all too quickly. My favorites were always the large format summer editions.
My brothers and I were the first in our family to not go ‘down pit’. As far back as genealogical records go, the men in my family had been miners. Old family photos show how hard life was then, and the early deaths of the men in my family show just how dangerous and debilitating mining was. Thanks to our parents, our lives have been very different from theirs.
Thirty-three years after becoming eligible for jury duty , I was finally called to serve.
I was 17 when my mother died. She’d been ill for a long time. After her death, I was lost, as was my Dad. We didn’t seem to know how to support each other, and I found myself floundering. This is the story of how I found myself again.