Welcome to the world of
Michael G Kimber
Michael G Kimber
The Nightwriter
A Line In The Sand
It is curious to consider some basic questions. When did my life begin, for example? A silly question you may say. When I was born, surely!
OK. So when did I know my life had begun? What are my early recollections, my earliest memory. When did I become aware of myself, and when did I know who I was? One would expect to be able to answer these questions fairly readily, but in truth, the more I think about it, the more difficult it becomes.
Nov 30 1934, was the day I came into the world. That’s the easy bit! On that day the nation, or at least some of them, were celebrating the 60th birthday of Winston Churchill, a name that would soon be on everyone’s lips, and indeed he became one of my early memories. He was the most famous man I knew, and when I discovered that we had something in common, I was quick to proclaim this snippet on any and every possible occasion.
Early memories do of course carry with them mixed emotions, and also a fairly high degree of uncertainty. So much depends on other people, on hearsay, and of things long (nearly) forgotten. Often a tiny aside which may have impinged in some subtle way on a different thought, can open a door into the darker corners of memory, and allow some long lost images to enjoy the light of consciousness. But who can say if they are true memories, or simply, for example, recollections of a conversation, or perhaps images formed from the written word. Someone else's memories in fact.
Coming in as the fifth of six children meant that family patterns were long established when I arrived. So was that indefinable thing that exists in all - especially large - families. I refer to folk law. Oh yes! Every family has its own folk law. It is that which we hold on to, and then pass down. All those special moments that occur for any member of the family, good and bad. Some to be treasured, remembered, and retold down the years. Others to be carefully put away, never quite forgotten, but only given the light of day, when circumstances demand. Of such stuff as this memories are made.
One such was in the thirty’s, and before I was born, when my parents - almost destitute - were forced to abandon their home, and most of their meagre belongings, to steal silently into the night with their four children. They simply had no money for the rent, or for other commitments, and had to face an uncertain and frightening future, hoping that somehow, somewhere, they would find some charity to see them through. That ‘midnight flit' as such a move was known, was their lowest point, for eventually, little by little, things did get better. But, my mother told me later - itself a wonder, for rarely did she mention that event in her life, and always in a very subdued manner - she never ever forgot the shame she felt at that time.
That little story brings to the fore another factor. The difference between true memories, and those which are the result of stories told quietly - secretively, or sometimes often repeated, which become embedded in the subconscious, and can in time became almost indistinguishable from the real thing.
How different then, is my awareness of that event, based upon what I was told, to hers, and of course my father's, who lived through it, experiencing the heartbreak and the fear.
Sadly I was not blessed with a good memory, and often I have to trust those whose recall of years gone by is so much better than mine. So if they tell me, for instance, that I once danced with Marilyn Monroe, or rode an Alligator bare back, I guess I’ll just have to believe them.
One early memory, which I do believe to be mine, is of my father’s ladder cart. The family were moving, (once again; one of many moves) lock stock and barrel, and due to lack of funds, and the relative nearness of the new abode to the old, the move was being done on his decorators cart. This manoeuvre must have taken a number of trips, each time with the cart piled high. Those not pushing would be carrying, as the little convoy trundled the half mile or so twixt hither and thither.
When it came to the last run, a space had been made for me between lamps and chairs and books and pillows, and off we went, all heads high (for this time it was not a midnight flit) as we walked bravely into the sunset.
On this last trip the family will have been complete. My father will certainly have had the long handle of the cart under his arm as he pushed and steered. My two eldest brothers would more than likely also be pushing, one at each side. My elder sister and the youngest of my three brothers will have been close by, carrying as much as they could manage, while my mother will have stayed close by carrying my baby sister, eighteen months my junior, ready to intervene in the event of an avalanche, or if, as apparently I was want to do, I just decided to get off.
Of course my memory of this event is nothing like as clear as this little passage might suggest, and does I think illustrate the point of inherited memory, but I like to think that some of it is mine. In fact, as I was to learn later, it was an unhappy time, and the move was not from choice, but from economic necessity. As often before they could no longer afford the rent, and somehow a cheaper house had been found. Even though they were not leaving unpaid debts behind them, it was a period of particular difficulty. My father, like so many men at that time, unable to find regular work, was constantly engaged in the struggle to get, and just as important, to keep, a job. So this was just one more move, one more upheaval, in a life which had been so hard for them, following their marriage some fifteen years earlier.
No one could have know just then, least of all my parents, that this was a turning point. Not only in their lives, but for us all. Whoever coined the phrase, ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life’ might well have had us in mind, for that bumpy journey became a line in the sand. As they unloaded the cart into their new house, they would not know that they were opening a new chapter. They would not have dared to dream that ‘this’ was to be their final move during those years of heartbreakingly futile endeavour. Yet somehow, with grit, determination, and perhaps a little luck, they put down roots.
Their wanderings were over.
I was perhaps two at the time, and that house is the only one I remember during my childhood, and through to my twenties. It became home for me, my Mum and Dad, and my siblings for more than two decades, until one by one we all left to make our own way in the world.
Top Of Page Next Story
No one could have know just then, least of all my parents, that this was a turning point. Not only in their lives, but for us all. Whoever coined the phrase, ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life’ might well have had us in mind, for that bumpy journey became a line in the sand. As they unloaded the cart into their new house, they would not know that they were opening a new chapter. They would not have dared to dream that ‘this’ was to be their final move during those years of heartbreakingly futile endeavour. Yet somehow, with grit, determination, and perhaps a little luck, they put down roots.
Their wanderings were over.
I was perhaps two at the time, and that house is the only one I remember during my childhood, and through to my twenties. It became home for me, my Mum and Dad, and my siblings for more than two decades, until one by one we all left to make our own way in the world.
Top Of Page Next Story