“There are some things one remembers even though they may never have happened.”― Harold Pinter
Things 1 & 2 started school on Monday. The next day, Thing 1 was disappointed to discover that school also happened on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, etc. Thing 2 is displaying her usual sangfroid. She’s already stepped forward with a request to ring the school bell – which probably weighs only a tad less than she does. And, having mentally mapped her new surroundings, all offers to accompany her to the toilet are politely, but firmly, declined.
This milestone led to thoughts about my first day at school. Hmm, quickly drawing a line under that traumatic episode, I took another sip of tea and moved on to consider how it might have been in my grandparents’ day. When my grandfather started his education, WW1 had already been raging for a year. He had a favourite tale he used to tell, of an elderly woman who stopped abruptly as she approached a field full of tents. An army officer approached and asked if he could help. The woman was perplexed by the sight of so many rows of tents. “These are for the soldiers, madam. Don’t you know there’s a war on?” the officer said. The elderly lady stroked her chin and adjusted her hat. “Well,” she replied, with a sweet smile, “they’ve got a fine day for it, haven’t they?”
My grandmother began her educational journey in 1918. As she discovered what it was to commit learning to memory, her father was returning from the battlefields of France, praying that he could forget. A hopeless goal for him, that wasn’t realised until his death in 1924.
I have some very clear memories from my early childhood. One in particular, involves my first encounter with a refrigerator, although at the time I regarded it as little more that a cupboard where ice-lollies came from. I would have been about two years old. It’s worth pointing out that the fridge belonged to a neighbour. We wouldn’t have one for another decade or more.
My grandfather upstaged me with his own early memory. He recalled being pushed in a pram, by his mother. The extraordinary thing was, the event took place at night. And as if that wasn’t enough, he described the sky as being alive with tiny points of light. Some moving and falling, drawing tails across the darkness before disappearing in an instant.
It’s quite moving to think of him, alone with his mother in the black stillness of the countryside, looking heavenwards. The two of them, their eyes filled with stars. Twinkling clues to the existence of other worlds they would never know.