Living Life Backwards

 Over the last few weeks, as I’ve been sorting in preparation for the move, I’ve come across items belonging to, or given to me by my parents, grandparents and one very special book, given to me by great grandad. I remember him as a huge man, very tall and upright with a scratchy suit, but when you are four, I suppose most people seem big. He lived at the top of nanny and grandad’s road, in Harborne, just past the Chad Valley toy factory.  I was fascinated by the pigeons he kept in the backyard and just a little afraid. There were such a lot of them, shuffling about importantly, and staring at me through the mesh—I can hear the soft cooing as I write this. I remember how neat and clean they were, silky to the touch and so much smaller than the big fat birds that you see strutting and swooping around town centres now.

I have boxes and boxes of photos, letters and cards. The letters go back to the days of my childhood  penfriends. I stopped sorting briefly, to reread the lovely letters from my African penfriend, Jacka. Blue airmail letters, reminding me of the excitement of each one arriving, the thrill of news arriving from far off places. We started writing in 1967 when I was 10 and Jacka was a nursing student in Tanzania. Her letters are very authoritative and kind, I'm sure she will have been a wonderful nurse. Jacka was practicing her English and in turn trying to teach me some words of Swahili. Our correspondence continued for three years, until she qualified and we lost touch. 

The letters and cards that I have kept each bring back memories of different times in my life, I am sure that there are zillions of emails saved on the Cloud, ready to be read again but it’s not the same as a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon, that you can touch and smell.

(Amongst all the letters, I found a copy of the application form that I submitted for my first practice in Sheffield, I can only hope that the real application was neater, with less mistakes and inkblots.)

There are many things that I should throw away, things that will only ever mean something to me, but I can’t just yet.  Perhaps I will in the next round of downsizing in a few years time. Consequently another category—Storage— has appeared. When I secured a container at the local self storage, I was obliged to take out insurance. I tried to explain that the items I was storing have absolutely no monetary value, letters. photo albums, etc etc but they weren’t having it.  Rules are Rules!

It has been enjoyable going through forgotten possessions. There are some daft things that mum had kept, like a homemade doll dressed in nightie and dressing gown, her woollen hair in curlers. I seem to remember a competition at school but I have no recollection of making the doll (maybe I didn't, needlework was never my strong point) but I do remember where the curlers came from. I was very envious of my friend, Yvonne, who was lucky enough to have a doll called Tressy. You could make Tressy's hair grow and she came with lots of items to style her magnificent tresses.  Yvonne lent me the curlers, I wonder if she wants them back...

I have started reading: A Terrible Kindness by Jo Browning-Wroe—perhaps appropriately, as my head has spent a lot of time in the 1960s, this week.

I wondered about reading this book, was reluctant to buy it. The disaster in Aberfan was an event that I remember clearly, it affected me profoundly and brings tears to my eyes now.   A copy of the book was offered to me, to borrow and, so far, I'm glad that I accepted.

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