WßD ~ Chapter 20 : When Books in Infancy are Foundation Stones (Revised Edition)

Windsor Street Days

Chapter 20

When Books in Infancy are Foundation Stones

I LOVE BOOKS. I adore the printed word. I’m very grateful for the technology at my fingertips via Apple and the hundred and one other computer devices that are to hand and make up my daily life. In an instant, I can find a legal document, a speech from a century ago, parchment from a thousand years further back, the Bible in any language I wish to view it. And this started in infancy. All of us, whether we want to accept it or not, do know how constant screenwork can strain the eyes. And we sense that pleasure, a heightened sense, when, instead of using an eBook or desktop frame, we decide to sit down quietly, away from the computer, and read print. No glare stares back. We choose the amount of light we want, check we’ve got the mug of tea or coffee conveniently, and safely, to hand, and then read the page. We become absorbed. We move across and down the next page, turning the leaf and repeating the process; making, perhaps a marginal note in pencil. What? You write in your books? You can’t then sell them on eBay!

Indeed not. I own my books and I own them for the duration of my life. They are my personal library. There are hundreds of them. And they are for my use, my pleasure, my benefit. If, when I am gone, my descendants find they are worthless, so be it. But they were not worthless to me. Perhaps, at this point, I should mention that working through the family archive, which includes books I’ve inherited or am custodian - ‘librarian’ - for the family, I discover I’m not the only one who liked to make a ‘note in the margin.’ Haha! Such notes, often cryptic, are akin to a magnifying glass upon the map of family history, enabling me to see the contours, bridges, a boundary stone or graveyard, that ceremonial county line, that cattle grid, even!

I find peace and joy in my books. Don’t get me wrong. I envy those who can read an entire page as quickly as I can read a sentence. I would love to have that type of brain.

The website that carries this ongoing serialisation of Windsor Street Days carries seven galleries. Let me explain why, and let me demonstrate how this neatly fits in to my own days in both Twenty Windsor Street (the address on my birth certificate) and Twenty-Five across the road, the heart of the family.

*

ONE OF THE joys of life is to visit Galleries and Museums.

A Gallery enables me to gain a better perspective, a new perspective even. Often, a whole new dimension of thought opens up. Some galleries have me returning many times, with a beeline to a particular display or artwork.

A painting can be gazed at for an hour. Often, nothing else is seen as I make my way to the exit. Yet, it is as if I have stepped through the fireplace in the wall into a world beyond. So many things are noticed. Upon return, things which eluded me last time, I now see clearly when, before, they were merely suggestive, a hint, a whisper. Still others are seen for the first time. Yet this is - in fact I’ve lost count - the latest in a whole collection of previous visits to this painting.

*

Perhaps I can explain this more easily by placing here part of chapter nineteen from Windsor Street Days.

As a boy, on sleepovers at my Grandparents’ in Windsor Street - not called ‘sleepovers’ of course in those days but ‘staying the night’ - it was akin to visiting Shangrila. The boys’ bedroom where my father and his brothers grew up, had wonderful books in there.

Each morning I’d awake and watch Grandad pass the door en route to the bathroom. “Morning Ken’, Morning Grandad … I knew the drill. All these picture books. I’d then hear Grandad downstairs, whistling; Judy - the chocolate-coloured Heinz 57 ‘I almost became a golden retriever but ended up a very chocolate coloured retriever’ - would be let out, and then the chink of cups and saucers, then the whistle of the kettle … and then back upstairs, Grandad walking in with a cup of tea and that ever-present smile. That was always a GRAND moment!

I’d hear Grandma … there would be adult talk, adult ‘good morning dears’, and a little while later, Grandma would pass by, also en-route, to the bathroom, a long robe on, smiling; ‘Good Morning Ken’, Good Morning Grandma. ‘When I’ve finished, you can get up dear; I’ve put your clothes ready on the other bed; and come down for breakfast when you hear Grandad return with Judy.

And all this time, I’d be pawing over ‘my’ books; books that took me to a lifetime before the war. My favourite was the coronation of George VI; next came a lovely grey-coloured hessian-covered book entitled “EDWARD THE EIGHTH - OUR KING” in capital letters that started magnificently with a full colour portrait of the new and quite young King in 1936 inside the front cover, in reds and golds, a lot of braid and tassels, and a fantastic sword! A book, though, that came to an abrupt stop with a black and white photograph of two vaguely sort of ‘happy-unhappy’ people at Fort Belvedere on their wedding day. And no longer king either. In fact the photograph before that one was very detailed, close-up, and the King was speaking into a BBC Microphone.

And before that hessian book, was the picture book of the Funeral of King George V. And before that, the Coronation of King George V and Queen Mary, both looking a lot younger in the Olden Days - and guess what? A quarter of a century earlier! I mean!! That’s TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. And I’m SIX!

And then this HUGE book - very heavy - SIXTY YEARS A QUEEN. This was the Queen Empress Victoria. Wow! The longest reigning Monarch. And I can spot all the crowned heads of Europe in 1899, and her grandson, the Kaiser, and the Tsar and Tsarina, her granddaughter. How on earth did they all end up killing each other?

Ermmm… Grandma and Grandad are from the Olden Days … I must ask … Especially, as Grandad, and my other Grandad were both in the other war, the war that came before the last one.

From downstairs, “Come along Ken, breakfast is ready.”

*

And these picture books taught me to study form.

Not that I knew that at the time; but tracing back the years, we do this a lot when we’re older, working out the whys and wherefores of attitudes, opinions, even beliefs now held, starting out; some maintained, others retained, and still others cast off as we navigate the decades and learn about “man’s inhumanity to man”.

Equally, while passing through the decades - meandering around my own galleries - the realisation that so much hog-wash is sold as literal truth as children which, god only knows, we somehow hold on to despite now plainly aware of all the evidence to the contrary.

Humankind is unmatched in its ability to make people into gods, to weave a story, to interweave a whole collection of different and most incredible stories seemingly into one story - this interweaving stretching across millennia, to seemingly present a seamless thread of redemption, we’re told; and told at the same time that as all these religions, all doing the same thing, are written over thousands of years, and that it would be impossible to write such a story so that it all does indeed fit seamlessly. And as no person could do this single-handed, then the conclusion is obvious.

Really?

We seem to forget the ability we have to make white seem black and black seem white; to make truth appear to be a lie, and a lie most definitely warranted as truth. We seem to overlook our tendency to rewrite history - especially religion - in order to fit the politics of the day. Then, a century later, conveniently turning a blind eye to the umpteenth U-Turn.

*

These eight galleries, are my own Art Gallery with eight rooms, the eighth room being a movie theatre.

And, for me, this is crucially important when I recall what Daesh did at Palmyra and what those religious maniacs did to a gentle and courageous Curator at Palmyra. The world watched on, shocked at the destruction of ancient monuments stretching back thousands of years to long gone civilisations, yet stifling a yawn when the 6pm news announced that the hapless curator’s life had, after months of incarceration, suffered decapitation on bended knees.

My Faith? Yes, I have my faith. Yes, it is intact. Very much so. But dare not speak religion of any kind to me. . .

I’m off for a wander. What was that?

Coffee? Yep, sure. Let’s meet in half an hour? It’s a fine day too, so we can sit out in the sun … haha, yes of course … socially distanced! Oh, and don’t put your cake down on the bench again … that lady’s dog thought heaven had arrived with your doughnut!

*

In every family, books are the cement that hold the bricks of life together. Put another way, it is that very important task of ‘repointing’ that must be done to all walls to maintain the structure, to protect the structure from the Elements, the winds, rains, storms and nature generally.

Play-stations and iPads and tablets catch the attention from the cradle onwards; but leave the printed books in place too. The young enquiring mind will, in time, (and here I’m suggesting it might actually be a very long time) take a peek inside a book; enjoy the illustrations and images, and discover that the five minutes they’ve just spent reading a page or so when they actually hadn’t intended to do so, has somehow made them sense a recharging of batteries. The book is put back but there is a subliminal note made … I’m going to do this again.

Don’t give up hope. Sometimes our applecart is overturned. I was of course thought to be out of ear-shot; problem is, I have very good hearing notwithstanding that screeching stereophonic tinitus.

Two years on, I’ve seen a wonderful school certificate this week that has brought great joy to our whole family; and most certainly would have had bells-a-ringing in Windsor Street Days.

23 April 2024
All Rights Reserved


LIVERPOOL

© 2024 Kenneth Thomas Webb

First written 23 January 2021

Last published 11 May 2022