RITE OF PASSAGE
My dad never really talked much about his childhood. He was the oldest of five children, and as a baby, his family had 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 would open 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. At those times, he would be physically abusive to my grandmother, and on one of those occasions, when my dad was 15, he decided to step in between his parents, and protect my grandmother. He was beaten pretty badly by his father, and was thrown out of the house by his father, ending up walking 20 miles through the night, to plead with an aunt to take him in. She agreed, but only on the condition that he got a job at the local pit the next day, and agreed to hand over his weekly pay packet, and then she would give him back an allowance.
Re-reading that last paragraph, I am amazed that my dad rose above all of that to be 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