RITE OF PASSAGE

Robert Ford — Mon, 07 Nov 2022 20:31:44 +0000

My dad never really talked much about his childhood. He was the oldest of five children, and as a baby, his family moved to the newly-established mining village of Ollerton in Nottinghamshire, which is located on the edge of Sherwood Forest. I never met either of my paternal grandparents, or any of my dad’s siblings. My understanding, from the few times that my dad opened up about his early life, was that his dad had been a hard drinking womanizer, prone to bouts of the blue devils, which is a Derbyshire idiom for low spirits and depression. During those times, he would be physically abusive to my grandmother. On one occasion, when my dad was 15, he stepped in to protect her. His father beat him badly and threw him out of the house. My dad walked 20 miles through the night to plead with an aunt to take him in. She agreed on the condition that he got a job at the local pit the next day and handed over his weekly pay packet, from which she would give him an allowance.

Re-reading that last paragraph, I am amazed that my dad rose above all of that to become the warm, kind, generous, and loving man that he was. I believe that him meeting my mum, and being welcomed into her family, was a big part of that.

Seeing the beautiful fall colors when I recently drove back to Florida via Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, this memory came flooding back to me. Both of my parents worked 6 days a week, and in the summer, my dad would sometimes suggest that we should drive out to Sherwood Forest or nearby Clumber Park. Until he got sick, driving was always a form of relaxation for him.

I know that we must have gone again, many times after we went conkering that day, but this is the day that is seared so deeply into my memory, so much so that I can still feel the sun on my shoulders, and the way my dad’s hair felt between my fingers.

For those who didn’t grow up in the UK, “Conkers is a traditional children’s game in Great Britain and Ireland played using the seeds of horse chestnut trees—the name ‘conker’ is also applied to the seed and to the tree itself. The game is played by two players, each with a conker threaded onto a piece of string: they take turns striking each other’s conker until one breaks.” It sounds simple, but there are so many rituals and anecdotal folklore to do with the selection, hardening, and stringing of one’s conkers.

RITE OF PASSAGE

You lifted me easily
Placing me on your shoulders
I’d complained of being tired
But I wasn’t ready to go home
Wasn’t ready for our day to end

It must have been October
The days were growing shorter
The chill of winter approaching
But on that sunny Sunday afternoon
And with the person that I loved
Most of all in the world
I was in heaven

I’d reached that age
Six or seven or so
Where I was suddenly aware
Of conkers and conkering

I’d asked you about them
Full of mystery
you’d said
“Wait until the weekend”

We’d often go
to your childhood haunts
But always as a family
Never just you and me
This felt like a rite of passage
Looking back, it was

The colorful and crunchy leaves
lay heavily on the ground
I’d worn myself out
Jumping into piles of them
Scattering them to the wind

When you suggested carrying me
I’d been quick to say no
That I wasn’t a baby any more
But inside
My heart screamed YES

Lifting me with such ease
You told me to hang on
And holding my legs
pressed tightly against your chest
You started to run
And I started to laugh
Uncontrollably
My hands clutching at your hair

After a while you slowed
And for the rest of the afternoon
We criss-crossed Clumber Park
Seeking out the fattest, shiniest conkers

You were like a boy again
Sharing your secrets
Of vinegar soaks and low ovens
While I savored every moment

Later, as the sun started to set
You said it was time to go home
Lifting me back down
You ruffled my hair
As I’d ruffled yours

Giving me the bag of conkers to carry
I held them tightly
Just as I still hold
the memory of that day

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Nights are drawing in

Robert Ford — Mon, 22 Feb 2021 21:11:13 +0000

This is another old poem, newly rediscovered and reworked. The third verse really makes me think about life’s trajectory for so many people, and how quickly you can reach that inflection point, where opportunities go from being boundless to being constrained and reduced.

I guess the way to fight that is to periodically reinvent yourself, as you determine what’s important to you, and what it is that you want to do with the next stage of your life (and the next, and the next). I feel thankful that I had the opportunity to move to the US when I did. As an outsider, a stranger in a strange land, I feel that I’ve had more opportunities than most to determine what’s important to me, and what I’m going to do about it.

Nights are drawing in

Nights are drawing in
No longer can he look to summer
Spreading out in front of him
Long, long days
Short, short attention span
Footloose, and fancy free

Fall now upon him, and winter soon to follow
He senses he’s lost his footing
Swearing that all that is free in this world
Are uninvited opinions and equally unwelcome advice

Where once opportunities were boundless
He’s bound by what could have been
Bound by what should have been
And haunted by what actually was

Still, he has his health
Though, in truth, that’s not what it was
No longer in his prime
He forgets when that was, or truly, if it ever was
???????
Now, whenever he struggles for breath
Or breathes in his own stale odors
So deeply ingrained, that no soap wash away
He’s painfully reminded that it isn’t now

Nights are drawing in
No longer can he look to summer
Instead, feeling the chill in the air
Pulling his age-worn clothing tight
Around his equally age-worn body
He settles in for what lies ahead

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RITE OF PASSAGE

Nights are drawing in

Nights are drawing in