So Summer has rolled round once more.........such as it has been so far!
I don't see the person who was such a big part of my days last Summer any more and so, perhaps, I have rose-tinted memories of the Summer of 2010.
All the same, the skies did seem bluer and the days a little more languid and relaxed. Still, memory can be an uncertain ally. It means well but does not always give you the "straight skinny".
I don't if I am any the wiser than I was then but, like most people, I have had many new experiences that have surely broadened my world view - but is that the same as wisdom? "Discuss" as they say on the exam papers.
Early this year I was lucky enough to meet many fine and talented and just plain nice people in a very short space of time and life seems a lot richer than it did in the dark days of winter. One in particular has become a close friend and something of a kindred spirit. At least I now no longer believe that it is IMPOSSIBLE to meet new people!
And so the world turns again and we have to accommadate it in its restlessness but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish it would slow down long enough to allow us to catch up!
When I was about fourteen this "small saint" arrived in my life courtesy of my father.
Dad was still, in the early sixties, a reservist in the Royal Air Force, having reached the rank of Squadron Leader. The big house where his unit was stationed was due to be sold off and the unit disbanded and, consequently, the contents of the Officer's Mess were shared out amongst Dad and his fellow officers.
He managed to lay claim to a good clutch of L.P.'s to aded to our collection at home. Ray Conniff and His Singers did not do much for my fourteen year old sensibilities but, oh, how Earl did!
As much as I liked contemporary popular music, his music was so much deeper, richer and more exotic.
The songs he recorded like Ebb Tide, Love Is A Many Splendored Thing and The Autumn Leaves were the songs of my parents' generation but I did not mind that at all for there was something very different about the musical "palette" that he employed to anything else I was listening to.
It was the first time that I had been made fully aware of the quality of "wistfulness" in music, or anywhere else for that matter. If you ever hear his version of "The Autumn Leaves" you will know just what I mean.
Earl's music was probably the first time I had made any real connection with the gems from the thirties, forties and fifties.
Connection? I nearly wore out that copy of "Sweet Tunes Of The Fabulous Fifties" The family's little Dansette record player was practically begging for mercy.
Ironically, Earl Bostic's signature tune, Flamingo, wasn't on that record. I only discovered it through the internet about a year ago and I think it is now my favourite track of all Earl's tracks - the ones that I have heard that is. It achieves the almost impossible feat of being wistful, boisterous and joyous at one and the same time.............. and entirely thrilling!
BIOGRAPHY
Born 25/4/13 in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Joined Terence Holder's Band at the age of 18. Made his first recording in 1942 and formed his own band in 1945. Recorded his signature tune, Flamingo, in 1951. Died of a heart attack while performing wit his band in Rochester, New York in 1965. He wrote arrangements for, among others, Paul Whiteman, Louis Prima, and Lionel Hampton. His song writing hits include "Let Me Off Uptown" recorded by Anita O'Day.
It's no use, I shall need a new language. These words I have used for so long are no match for this task. They are blunt and heavy things that will not take flight to pierce her heart.
I need a language, suffused with some elemental power, to lend the directness of the arrow to my purpose.
But earth will not do. The nurturing clay tethers all to the ground.
And air itself? No, not air! In the vast and endless
the great imperative will be lost.
Water, then? No, water flatters with a caress, being only concerned with the things of the surface. It will not pierce her heart.
And the spark that lights the fire too often devours the very thing it sought to create.
No, the elements have been no help to my purpose. They cannot pierce her heart.
The only hope, then, is the light. I shall live in the light and make my stand and pray that she is drawn toward my orbit.
Light does not pierce. It has no need. It prefers, instead, to peel away layers of illusion that hide the truth from the sincerest eye.
I shall not flinch in all the shining. I shall not flinch under her gaze for the light will make all transparent and vouch for me.
And, being washed clean, I can only wish that the gifts I hold in my heart for her will appear in bold relief.
I can only pray for her delight, that smile again, her quickening heart and an outstretched hand to lead me home.
Dear Readers I have something of a quandary which I hope that one of you can help me with!
As I may have mentioned before I have a portfolio of part-time jobs to keep body and soul together (such is the lot of the free lance writer). One of these involves escorting a seven year old disabled Asian boy to school in a taxi.
My contract ends in June because the littl e boy is going to a specialist school on the other side of town.
Here's my quandary: I have known this little boy for two years and grown rather fond of him. He faces all his difficulties bravely and cheerfully and I'd like to get him some small gift as a token of my affection and a memento of our time together.
But what!!!
It wouldn't be appropriate to spend too much. I was thinking about five or six quid -six or seven U.S. bucks. The child is Muslim so I will have to be careful not to offend any sensibilities. Also in these Politically Correct times I have to be very careful not to give anyone the wrong idea.
So what do you think? Is there wise counsel out there? Should I get my little friend an innocent treat or let the whole thing pass, be extra cautious, bend my knee to political correctness and see a little boy robbed of a small but happy moment?
From time to time I hope to bring you another addition to what I'm going to call my Gallery of Small "Saints".
Some of these "Saints" are known to me personally, others may be writers, artists or musicians etc. The one thing that they will all have in common is that they all add, in their own way, to the sum of human happiness. In however great or modest a fashion, they make the world a better place to live in. They appear in no particular order of merit.
I have known Gladys, vaguely, for many years but only recently gotten to know her better.
The thing that always impressed me whenever I saw her in the street was how well dressed she always was, but there is nothing ostentatious about her. She dresses simply and elegantly and has great poise and dignity.She told me recently that she was in her 70's and it came as a genuine surprise to me.
Gladys is a modest woman in the best sense of that word, but "modest" should never be confused with "insignificant". People like my friend form the very spine of society. They are the ones that work, look after aged relatives, support friends and continue to foster a sense of community in a society that seems hell bent on tearing that very thing apart.
Gladys IS significant for she and her like (and, happily for us, there are more of them than you may think) are the perfect antidote to the ME FIRST society.
They don't talk psychobabble. They are not slaves to every passing fashion or the latest sociological theories. Like Gladys, they have a clear eye and a good heart and their value to us all is immeasurable. We may not always notice people like Gladys but if they all disappeared tomorrow the whole world would feel the draught.
I usually put some sort of illustration on my postings. Illustrations are there to illuminate but Glady's qualities are illumination enough and now I am glad that you have met her.
I would be delighted to receive poems or short pieces on any subject for inclusion in "guest posts" which I hope to feature regularly. No payment I'm afraid but full credits and you can include a potted biography of yourself, mentioning any charitable organisations that you are involved with.
If interested, email me on johnnicollendeavour@yahoo.co.uk.
All right, now I know that all YOUR Mums are the best in the world, but the modest verse below goes some towards explaining why I think that mine is.
She is 91 now and has served her country as a Wren Officer during World War 2. If you are reading this in the U.S. that means she was a Woman Royal Navy Officer. At one point she was operating only 22 miles from Rommel's approaching army.
She was one of the generation who brought our National Health Service into being and, of course, funded it through her taxes and, as well as helping to bring up three children in a secure, happy and stable environment (of a sort that a lot of kids these days can only dream of) she held down a series of important and worthwhile jobs.
When we got home from school we used to have our evening meal together, during which she'd always talk to us like the intelligent human beings she knew us to be and tell us in great detail about the book she was currently reading. I KNOW that this was where I got my love of Language and Literature.
I hope to produce a fuller biography of this fine lady (and one of my father) soon.
John Robertson Nicoll
FOR MY MOTHER The pebble on the beach and the wave are good metaphors, I think. For the wave alone gives the pebble its form, returning time and again to spend everything on the stone which, owing to its nature, can never adequately give thanks for each gift - each act of forgivenness.
