Sharing the memories …….. who is left?

At 73 it is easy to fall back into childhood memories …….of places you played, significant events and old friends, not to forget the silly bits like when me, Jimmy O’Donnell and John Cox got stuck in ozzy oily Thames mud.

The River, 1979

We could have been no more than nine, had chosen to turn west at the bottom of the Greenwich foot tunnel steps and instead of exploring the sandy beach in front of the Naval College took to exploring the Thames barges on the other side.

An adventure which led us to sink in the mud, be rescued by a workman and walk home to Peckham covered in mud which slowly dried and led to three very difficult conversations with our mothers.

I tell the story now and again but today it struck me how I doubt I will ever be able to wallow in that story with Jimmy or John, or the school incident which involved Paul Driver falling into the pool fully clothed which earned him the nickname of Dribble which followed him for the following five years.

Me, circa 1957

I long ago lost contact with Jimmy and John, and despite a brief reconnection with one of them a decade ago which was a tad stilted, the links are now lost.  Nor would I even know where to start looking for Paul Driver, Peter Broome, and Michael Titchner.

Adventures in the tunnel, from a picture, 1916

So, the memories of things I did can never really be shared again with those I did them with.

Now, for any one born after 1965 all this will read as the silly meanderings of someone with nothing better to do and be rebutted with “get a life” “play with the grandchildren” or “paint the back wall”.

But it isn’t as easy as that because even while painting the back wall I will slide back to the childhood games in Pepys park or wandering through the woods above our house on Well Hall Road.

And sometimes you just want to check that it really happened, that getting lost in those old London fogs, or discovering new places on a Red Rover jaunt were real.

The River, 2017

I now catch myself doing “a Dad” where he would sit staring out across the room or the garden lost in thoughts which may have been about painting the back wall or more likely about growing up in Gateshead in the early 20th century or anyone of the heaps of passengers he took on coach tours around Europe.

They were always accompanied by wistful expressions which suggested he was far away from the living room of 294.

And so, I carry on, writing about the events, which is a way of reliving them and in the process discover that they chime in with the memories and experiences of others of my generation

Location; the past

Pictures; On the River, 1979, Me circa 1957, from the collection of Andrew Simpson, Woolwich Foot Tunnel circa 1916, courtesy of Kristina Bedford from  Woolwich Through Time, Kristina Bedford, 2014, Amberley Publishing, and The Thames, 2017 from the collection of Jillian Goldsmith