I’m only dreaming

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Heading into dreamland (image: http://www.freeimages.co.uk)

Dreaming. What do we mean by this? Planning an ideal future? Day dreaming on a sunny afternoon about happy memories? A longing to be somewhere else? That strange activity we undertake at night-time? Something else altogether?

There are many songs about dreams. Most, if not all, of the ones I know are about night-time dreaming – but not the kind I experience. My dreams, at least those I remember, are a confused jumble of experiences which make little sense at all. More of that later.

Whereas songs about dreaming are typically about a dream woman (or sometimes man). Typically the singer (or songwriter) will have met and won somebody fantastic, or hopes to meet such a person, or did meet but was ignored by such a person, or lost – or fears losing – such a person through break-up or death.

The many examples include: All I Have To Do Is Dream performed by The Everly Brothers; Dreaming by Buddy Holly (written by Buddy for, but not recorded by, The Everly Brothers); Dreams by Fleetwood Mac; These Dreams by Heart; Daydream Believer by The Monkees; Sweet Dreams Baby by Roy Orbison; Talking In Your Sleep by Crystal Gayle; and Dream Lover by Bobby Darin and Mr Sandman by The Chordettes.

Other songs about dreaming, but on a different topic, include Dreamweaver by Gary Wright which is, I think, more about the activity of dreaming, California Dreamin’ by The Mamas and The Papas, about missing the warmth of California, and Number 9 Dream by John Lennon, which was apparently written in a dream.

But perhaps my favourite dream song is Joe Brown’s rendition of I’ll See You In My Dreams, a 1924 song written by Isham Jones and Gus Kahn, and performed by many artists over the last 90 years. I have seen Joe Brown perform the song in concert on a number of occasions. Incidentally, if you ever spot that Joe is due to appear at a venue near you, do go along, he is a fantastic guitarist, singer and entertainer – country, rock, blues, folk, gospel, you will get it all, and some bad jokes…

Joe Brown also performed I’ll See You In My Dreams, accompanying himself on ukulele, as the finale of Concert For George, a George Harrison tribute event in 2002 (Joe and George were friends and neighbours). Which shows that you can use one of these boy-meets/loses-girl songs for a completely different purpose.

But, as I indicated, my actual dreams – and I suspect most people’s dreams – are nothing like that at all, although loved ones do appear in them from time to time. Nor do I do anything useful such as write songs in my dreams as, apparently, John Lennon did when he wrote Number 9 Dream or Paul McCartney when he woke with the tune for Yesterday in his head.

Some folk believe dreams to have meanings and invest great energy into reading or analysing them. Personally I think dreams might indicate something very general, such as anxiety, but otherwise they seem to me to be your brain shuffling through recent and more distant experiences – perhaps a little like someone shuffling several decks of cards at once, with each deck having different illustrations on the reverse, so the packs become confused.

I have noticed three recurring themes in my dreams: frequent journeys through a townscape, in a car or a bus; appearances by my father (not surprising as he died just over a year ago); and becoming a journalist again (something I did for real from the late Seventies to the mid-Eighties) – although in recent weeks some dreams have taken me back, in a very confused way, to the BBC, where I worked from 1986 to 2010.

Anyway, here are some of my recent dreams. My recollections of them are pretty vague but this is the best I can do despite making an effort to remember them. If you think these extracts show me to be mad, sad or bad I would be grateful if you could keep this to yourself and not say so in the comments section of this blog!

1. The musician Joe Brown (as above) and our neighbour trying to raise something from sea. I believe I am trying to help.

2. I am in a modern department store. While I am there it turns into a store from the Second World War era. I am there as a reporter, I meet a man, apparently the owner, with a double or even a triple-barelled name, who speaks about changing the store into an old-fashioned look because of Brexit. My father turns up at the end of the dream.

3. In the back seat of car travelling at night, urging my father – the driver – to turn because he has failed to see the entrance to our house and an oncoming cyclist. The incident seems to be in slow motion and fades away without resolution. Then I am driving my Volkswagen Lupo along country roads trying to put a giant black key into the ignition. A little later, I am with my mother and someone else (not my father, I think) in a house waiting for one of my aunts and other people to arrive for dinner.

4. I am out with my wife, Kathie Touin, we decide to go for an ice cream dessert before a theatre trip but I have with me a sauce made from salad cream which will not go with ice cream. Then Kathie wants a restaurant meal with garlic so – instead of looking for, perhaps, an Italian restaurant – we search for a shop selling garlic. Out on a country road, we see two friends with their children in a car watching or listening to the singer Marti Webb – one of our friends in the car describes Marti Webb as the woman who played The Queen in the film (in reality, Helen Mirren).

5. I am due to be presenting a live programme for BBC Radio 2, helped by a former BBC colleague (I should say that when I was at the BBC I was not involved in production or presentation, though many years ago I was a hospital radio presenter in Peterborough, Radio 5, and King’s Lynn, Radio Lynn). My colleague plays CDs on-air while I trawl through the CDs in my collection but never find what I am looking for. Eventually my colleague leaves and I sit at the presentation desk only to discover I cannot make it work.

Make of that what you will.

By the way, I have noticed another phenomenon sometimes which is a state somewhere between sleep and waking. It might be just after waking up or, perhaps more often, as I go back to sleep after waking briefly in the night. I am still awake, and conscious of my surroundings, but into my mind comes an apparently random stream of surreal and disconnected images. Is it just me?

Well, there we are, confessions of a dreamer. I wonder what tonight will bring?

Graham Brown

To find out more

Joe Brown’s website

Thank you freeimages.co.uk for the photograph at the top of this blog entry.

One year later: more thoughts about my father

One year ago today, which happened to be Easter Day, my father Clive Brown died aged 82 in the early hours of the morning. I have written about this in three previous blogs – “48 Hours: my father and I“, “48 Hours: postscript” and “That Was The Year That Was“. But, if you will indulge me, I have a few more thoughts to offer on this poignant anniversary.

It is a truism to say that time passes more quickly as one gets older but the past year seems to have raced along. Perhaps it is to do with being “over the hill”, a phrase meaning past one’s best which is not heard so much these days (maybe because I am older people whisper the words out of my earshot). Anyway, if I am “over the hill” and careering out of control down the other side that might explain time rushing by.

In a previous blog – “It wouldn’t be a show without Punch” – I recorded some of my late mother’s expressions but I would also like to recall a few of my father’s favourite sayings.

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One of my favourite photographs of my parents, Mary & Clive Brown

Two of his regulars were “muck or nettles” and “all hair and teeth”. The first means “all or nothing”, though I have no idea why, and the second indicates a particularly lively situation, for example, a frantic and barely-under-control football match.

He also liked to refer to a situation being “a right schmozzle”, meaning chaotic. I understand schmozzle is of Hebrew or Yiddish origin and I once surprised an Israeli work colleague when, without thinking, I used the word. I don’t know where my father got it from, perhaps it was common parlance when he was young or perhaps he picked it up during his National Service in the Army.

When I was a small child my father sang in a male voice choir and he continued to enjoy choral music throughout his life. But his favourite genre was West End, Broadway and film musicals. He loved going to see musicals and I chose the Prologue, or Carousel Waltz, from Carousel, performed by the John Wilson Orchestra, as the music at the end of his funeral service. He also loved watching this orchestra when they appeared on TV from the BBC Proms.

I used to reflect how a few years’ difference in date of birth could have made a big difference to my slightly old-fashioned, though fairly enlightened, father. He was born in August 1933. Less than 18 months later, in January 1935, along came Elvis Presley and just five years or so after that John Lennon was born. They helped pioneer a form of music which largely passed my father by.

But, of course, it is not just when we are born which governs what we like or dislike. The society and family around us, our own peculiar tastes, are probably more important. Being born a few years later would not have made my father a rocker.

He was a big consumer of TV programmes, particularly live football (especially Arsenal) and political programmes.

In terms of reading, it was mostly biographies and autobiographies (of historical, political, newspaper and sporting characters) and railway books – but definitely not fiction. Fiction was something of a blindspot for my father, he could not see the point of reading made-up stories when there were so many real stories to read.

I would like to close with some passages from one of the letters I received after my father died last year. You may know that his last job before retirement was Editor of the Spalding Guardian and of the Lincolnshire Free Press, two local newspapers in Spalding, South Holland (south Lincolnshire) which were effectively operated as a twice-weekly.

The letter I have in mind came from someone who was a journalist in the same company, but not at the same newspaper. She made some fascinating observations in her thoughtful and heartfelt letter.

Not everything she wrote struck me as true but we all have different experiences of people – for example, she felt he was reluctant to allow others “access to his treasure of experience and talent.” I would have thought differently, but I did not work for or with him.

But among her observations which ring true about his approach to journalism and work…

“Clive’s often inscrutable responses were a breath of fresh air when set against sometimes fawning contributions from individuals desperate to succeed in the cut-throat world of print publishing.”

“He did not suffer fools and hilariously described one [company] director, for whom he had no time whatsoever, as ‘Being at the back of the queue when couth was handed out’.”

“He consummately detested all things ‘corporate’…”

“He largely loathed”… “experimental promotional ideas”.

“His talent as a shrewd and eloquent newsman always shone brightly.”

“Unquestionably his own man, he commanded the Spalding Guardian by the shrewd application of qualities that made newspapers successful at the time: honesty, integrity and accuracy delivered with a genuine attempt at social responsibility and true reader value.”

Graham Brown

That Was The Year That Was

Well, 2016 is nearly at a close and for me it feels like a year of loss, disappointment and sadness, but also much love and laughter experienced through the year – and I must remember there is always hope.

It seems hard to know where to begin with 2016, so much has happened, but for me it has to be with the loss of my father on Easter Sunday. You may have read my two previous blogs about this, how he went into hospital for a major operation but died a few days later.

I am sad to reflect on his passing but none of us lives forever and what happened was perhaps better than, for example, my father facing many years of deteriorating and poor health which was, I think, another possible outcome.

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My father Clive Brown (left) in the cab of the Flying Scotsman steam locomotive at the Nene Valley Railway (image: Spalding Guardian/Lincs Free Press)

My wife, Kathie Touin, and I have happy memories of time spent with my father (though he could be frustrating as well), funny stories to look back on, and some of my parents’ loveliest possessions – ornaments, paintings, two railway locomotives – scattered about the house.

And, yes, hope – among those at my father’s funeral was my cousin with her baby, the newest member of our family and a useful reminder of the circle of life.

Shortly before my father died my wife Kathie lost one of her friends, Keith Emerson, who was also a huge inspiration for her music. He committed suicide which made it seem worse. She wrote a moving blog about her friend.

Others who have left us this year include Austin Hunter, a Northern Ireland journalist and communications professional, who I had the honour to know at the BBC. He was intelligent, funny, engaging and generous with his time. The day he took me and some colleagues around the sights of Belfast and explained Northern Ireland will live on in my memory.

Some of my friends have also lost parents this year, and some of you reading this will have lost loved ones.

And, of course, 2016 was the year in which so many famous people died. Not just that, it was the year in which so many talented and well-respected famous people died, some before their time, others who seem to have been ever present in our lives.

We all have our favourites whose passing we mourn. For me, this year, they include – from the world of music – Sir George Martin, David Bowie, Leonard Cohen, Scotty Moore, George Michael, Prince, Sir Peter Maxwell Davies, Merle Haggard, Greg Lake, Glenn Frey, Rick Parfitt and the above-mentioned Keith Emerson. Other notable losses include Ronnie Corbett, Victoria Wood, Jimmy Perry (how many hours of laughter has his creation Dad’s Army sparked?), Caroline Aherne, Eric ‘Winkle’ Brown (pioneering test pilot), Alan Rickman, Paul Daniels, Jo Cox MP, Robert Vaughn, Bert Kwouk, Cliff Michelmore, Carrie Fisher, Debbie Reynolds, Graham Lay (Antiques Roadshow) and a selection of radio presenters I grew up with: Terry Wogan, Ed Stewart, Dave Cash and Jimmy Young.

This year’s Christmas Day morning was not quite the same without Ed Stewart on Junior Choice on BBC Radio 2 playing childhood favourites such as Ernie (The Fastest Milkman In The West),  Captain Beaky And His Band, Right Said Fred and My Brother.

There were anniversaries, as well, this year. I was particularly moved by the events, and TV and radio programmes, marking 50 years since the disaster at Aberfan, when a village school in Wales was engulfed by a colliery spoil tip resulting in the deaths of 116 children and 28 adults. I remember as a child, with my mother’s help, sending books and toys to an appeal for the surviving children.

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The Green Hollow by Owen Sheers was a moving BBC Wales TV drama (image: BBC)

I was especially struck by a BBC Wales TV dramatisation, The Green Hollow, by Owen Sheers, which depicted parents waving their children off to school shortly before the disaster: “And that’s how they went. Out a hundred doors for their last days. And that’s how we said our last goodbyes. With all the luxury of easy time.”

The luxury of easy time, what an apt phrase, and it is a luxury we do not appreciate until it has gone.

But, wait, there are some positives aspects to all this. I gain strength from the simple dignity and bravery of ordinary people faced with unspeakable life-and-death situations, such as the Aberfan families and rescue workers. I think of the chance to celebrate the lives of respected musicians, and enjoy their music.

Sometimes, admittedly, it would be good to celebrate good folk while they are still alive and, on that note, I am gratified that the recent release of Kate Bush’s live album has led to a renewal of interest in her music which I seem to be hearing more often on the radio.

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The cactus given to me many years ago by my late mother now produces yellow flowers (image: Graham Brown)

And on the subject of celebrating people, a few words about my dear mother who died in August 2001. I have a small cactus plant which she gave to me, perhaps 20 or 30 years ago, I cannot remember. In the last two years, sat in the lounge of our Orkney home, it has started flowering – this year it had five yellow flowers at once. The cactus is a super way to remember my mother.

Curiously, when Kathie and I got married in 2003 the celebrant placed a yellow rose on the altar to represent my late mother. And now I have the yellow-flowering cactus.

This was also the year when democracy, to many of us, seemed to go wrong. We had terrorist attacks, inaction over Syria, Brexit – ie the UK voting to leaving the European Union – and the election of Donald Trump as President of the USA.

I did not vote for Brexit which has ushered in a period of great uncertainty, particularly financially. However, if we keep calm and apply ourselves as a nation I think it can be made to work.

Will Trump be a successful President of the USA? I doubt that, and to find someone who ridicules the disabled, abuses women and stereotypes minorities in such a powerful elected position is deeply depressing. He feels like a dangerous choice for the world. We shall see.

Gretchen Peters, a brilliant songwriter who I much admire, and who is dismayed by what is happening to her country, the USA, has I understand been singing Paul Simon’s American Tune in concert since the election. She is absolutely right to do so, the words could have been written last week. I have not heard Gretchen’s version, but the weathered voice and guitar of Willie Nelson suit the song well:

But on a personal level for me in 2016, there were small triumphs, good days and fun times.

Some examples: a week spent in January with my father, seeing friends and relatives; Rich Hall’s gig in Orkney (very funny); a fun weekend in Edinburgh when Kathie and I saw  Gretchen Peters in concert (see my previous blogs); a relaxing weekend with Kathie and Roscoe, our Border collie, on the Orkney island of Sanday (see my previous blogs); favourite annual events in Orkney such as the West Mainland Show in nearby Dounby and the Vintage Rally; seeing (on BBC Television) Andy Murray win Wimbledon and Heather Watson win the Mixed Doubles; a fortnight Kathie and I spent in Shropshire and North Wales (see my previous blogs), which included our friends’ wonderfully funny and touching wedding; and many outings with Roscoe to our local beaches.

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Roscoe digging the beach at Bay of Skaill, after the Christmas 2016 storms, with the Atlantic waves rolling in (image: Graham Brown)

More good news – Kathie’s music featured for the third time on Steve Conway’s A-Z Of Great Tracks on 8Radio.com. This time he played her song Home from the Dark Moons & Nightingales album; previously he featured Kathie’s songs Clarity and Does It Really Matter. He told 8Radio.com listeners: “The music is just so simple, it speaks to you directly.” Here is Home:

Kathie and I continue to volunteer for the RSPB and, in my case, work part-time in the office. This year I had to cover a five-week period at one go, the longest stretch I have spent in an office since leaving the BBC at the beginning of 2010. It was hard work!

We were both asked early in 2016 to join another voluntary group and become managers (committee members) of Quoyloo Old School, our village community centre. It was an honour to be asked and the events we help run are great fun.

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HMS Hampshire memorial wall, Marwick Head, Orkney (image: Graham Brown)

But my biggest honour this year was being on the Orkney Heritage Society committee which arranged the restoration of Orkney’s Kitchener Memorial at Marwick Head and the creation of a new commemorative wall alongside for all the 737 men who died when HMS Hampshire sank on 5 June 1916.

The work culminated on the day of the centenary when events took place in Birsay Community Hall and I was one of the volunteers presented to HRH The Princess Royal (my late mother would have been so proud). In the evening there was an outdoor service of remembrance at the memorials, looking out to sea on a glorious sunny evening, coinciding with the time of the sinking.

You can read much more about this commemorative work on the project blog and on the HMS Hampshire website. Please see the links at the bottom of this blog entry.

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That’s me (far side of cherry picker platform) going to the top of the Kitchener Memorial (image: Kathie Touin)

Incidentally, the day after the centenary some of us involved in the project had our photographs taken on the top of the 48-feet high Kitchener Memorial. There is no internal staircase so we were whisked to the top on a builder’s cherry picker. As someone who is afraid of heights I was not sure I could do it, but I made myself.

This year’s weather in Orkney? Contrary to what some folk believe, we do not get much in the way of snow, ice and below-zero temperatures. It was a pretty good summer and an exceptionally mild autumn. But we do get strong winds, such as the storms at Christmas – fortunately our power stayed on and we were able to enjoy our Christmas dinner and celebrations. Tomorrow night Kathie and I will see in the New Year at the Quoyloo Old School (which reminds me, I need to make sandwiches).

So that’s been 2016, and now I look forward to 2017. With hope. And remembering that sometimes we find we can do things that we do not think we are capable of.

Perhaps it is appropriate to end with quotes from two US citizens of the past I admire…

Amelia Earhart: “Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace.”

Eleanor Roosevelt: “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

Graham Brown

To find out more…

That Was The Week That Was, a BBC TV programme which inspired the title of this blog – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/That_Was_the_Week_That_Was

Kathie Touin blog – https://kathietouin.wordpress.com/

Junior Choice favourites – http://www.bbc.co.uk/music/playlists/zzzzwx

The Aberfan disaster – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aberfan_disaster

Aberfan: The Green Hollow – http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b07zk9fl

8radio – http://8radio.com/

Kitchener & HMS Hampshire Memorial project blog – https://kitchenerhampshire.wordpress.com/

HMS Hampshire history website – http://hmshampshire.org/

48 Hours: my father and I

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We were younger then. My father and I, in the early 2000s, on the Waterloo Memorial in Belgium (image: Graham Brown/Frank Bonte)

This is a true story and not a very cheerful one, you might think, though it does have its moments of redemption.

On Good Friday this year I left Orkney for a month, my longest absence since moving here six years ago. I did not want to leave Orkney behind, or Mrs Brown (Kathie Touin), or our dog, Roscoe. In fact, saying goodbye to Roscoe was in some ways the most emotional and difficult part – perhaps because it is impossible to explain absence to a faithful hound.

But I was on important family business. My father, Clive, aged 82, in Lincolnshire, had undergone a planned but serious hospital operation three days earlier and we had agreed that I would care for him for four weeks when he was released home. After that he was due to go to his sister’s for a further fortnight although, pre-operation, he clearly thought he would be sufficiently recovered for that to be unnecessary.

I flew from Kirkwall, via Edinburgh, to East Midlands Airport. At Edinburgh Airport I got some lunch and listened to a BBC Radio 4 programme I had downloaded about the hymn I Vow To Thee My Country. This was a favourite of my late mother and I found myself, sat in Costa, getting tearful. I don’t think anyone noticed in the airport hubbub.

At East Midlands Airport I was met by a taxi driver for the 60-mile journey to my father’s house in Pinchbeck, just outside Spalding. He was an engaging and chatty travel companion.

One of the subjects I raised was the distance between the home I had chosen, in Orkney, and my father’s home, more than 600 miles away. This is something over which I have carried some guilt ever since we moved.

“You cannot live your life for other people,” he said.

I arrived at my father’s house and found his brilliant neighbours, who were going to be out for the evening, had left me a home-made curry to heat up.

The next day I went to Morrisons supermarket in the morning, stocking up for my father’s release from hospital, trying to choose food and ingredients I thought would be good for him and would suit his medical condition.

Back home I had a quick lunch and then I was off to the Pilgrim Hospital in Boston to visit my father.

His ward was on the fifth floor. He was in a room of four beds, each containing an elderly gentleman. I knew he had undergone a major operation but I was not prepared for how tired and pained, how old, he looked. He greeted me and asked how my journey from Orkney had been.

But there was not much more conversation as he dozed, and he was not up to reading the newspapers and magazines I had brought him. He did not sleep much either because, I think, he was not comfortable with his level of pain or with his position in the bed.

The nurses – brilliant, ever cheerful and patient – visited a number of times to try to make him more comfortable and to complete their checks.

My father had been speaking, before the operation, of going home on the Monday after my arrival. It was clear to me he would not be well enough. I asked the opinion of one of the nurses, who agreed with me, but she said he might be well enough by the end of the week.

As he dozed through my six-hour visit I read a little and was able to take in the surroundings. The windows had a commanding view across the flat Lincolnshire countryside. The crows came and went in the trees. The pigeons chased each other.

And the smell. What is that hospital smell? A mixture of disinfectant, warm bodies, I don’t know. But when I think of that afernoon I can still smell it.

Towards the end of my visit my father asked me to find his watch in his bag and put it on for him. This was a mistake. With little else to do, he checked the time every two or three minutes.

Eventually I said I should go home for dinner. “Yes, you don’t want to stay here,” he said, or something to that effect.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I left and moved to shake his hand. He clasped my hand unexpectedly strongly.

Walking out of the hospital I could not find a working car park pay-terminal, and while searching got caught in a sudden downpour that soaked through my clothes. While sheltering back inside the hospital entrance I met some helpful folk who pointed me in the right direction.

On my drive back to my father’s house I stopped in the village of Surfleet to get fish and chips, at the wonderfully named Cod Squad. There was a conversation with the friendly guys behind the counter about my Scottish bank notes, which I produced to pay, and why I was visiting. They wished me and my father all the best.

I knew that when I got home I would be into a round of telephone calls and conversations about my father’s condition so I decided to eat my supper in the car in the lay-by to get a few minutes to myself.

That night I was not early to bed but I did not worry because I did not have to be up early in the morning, hospital visiting did not start until lunchtime.

I slept soundly until… suddenly, I was awake, my mobile phone was ringing. It was 1.15am. There was a nurse from the hospital at the other end. Could I come to the hospital now?

“Why, what has happened?” “You just need to come now.” I was told to go through Accident & Emergency to get into the locked hospital.

By the time I was out of bed, visited the bathroom, dressed, and got the car out of the garage, it was close to 1.30am.

The journey to the hospital was relatively quick, about 25 minutes, there not being much traffic. On the way I did not, for some reason, want music so for distraction I listened to a talk station, Talk Radio. They were discussing that night’s big boxing match and how one of the boxers had been rushed to hospital. Hmm…

I left the radio on but wondered to myself, as I drove, why I had been called, presumably it must be something serious? I got through A&E, where they seemed to be expecting me, and made by way through the hospital.

In the lift I noticed the clock said 3am. How can that be? Oh yes, I thought, we are moving onto British Summer Time tonight, the clocks are going forward.

As I walked into the ward I caught sight of one of the staff make a small head and eye gesture to a nurse to indicate my arrival. The nurse showed me into a side room and a doctor was called in. I was starting to realise what was happening.

He told me so carefully and sympathetically what had happened to my father that I remember saying to him, to be sure: “So, he’s dead then.”

Yes, he was. I will not go into my father’s personal medical details but there had been developments, complications, during the night. He died at about 1.30am, about the time I was setting off for the drive to the hospital.

The doctor, who was the surgeon who carried out the operation, was visibly shaken himself at this turn of events.

Did I want to see my father?, the nurse asked. Yes, I said. I was thinking to myself, here I am, aged 58, and I have not seen a dead body, until now.

My father was still on the ward, in his bed, surrounded by a curtain. Despite having seen him hours before, when he was clearly seriously ill, I was struck now how small, how diminished Dad looked. I touched his hand, I think I told him I loved him – not something we ever said in life.

I collected his belongings from the nurse, including his watch, and was shown out of the hospital.

On the drive back many thoughts went through my mind. One was the realisation that my father had died on Easter Sunday, which seemed ironic; another was that the car I was driving, my father’s, probably no longer had valid car insurance with his passing.

I rang my wife when I got home and then wondered when would be an appropriate time to ring my father’s three siblings. I needed to tell them soon, but was there any point in waking them? My calculations were complicated by the clocks changing.

Eventually, through the early hours, I spoke to everyone and then, at about 7am, went to tell my father’s neighbours, who were very close to him. There was shock, some tears and cups of tea.

The end of my 48 Hours.

Graham Brown

 

Elements, a poem

Image courtesy of freeimages.co.uk

I have elements of my parents
Not chemical elements
Well, speaking as a non-biologist, I expect I do have chemical elements,
But I don’t mean those.

I possess elements of my parents’ looks and behaviour
Good, bad, unremarkable, annoying,
Now I’m middle-aged, I start to spot them.

As a youngster people would say to me
‘Oh you look like your mother’
‘Oh I can see your father’.

I couldn’t see these similarities, didn’t want to either
I was me, an individual, young, trendy
I start to see these similarities now.

What is more
I see other elements, not to do with looks.

As a child my father would get tense and annoyed
If family outings did not depart on time
How embarrassing to find myself the same
Though only sometimes, of course.

My late mother had a collection of teddy bears
Not so many that she was a serious collector
And I don’t have so many – but more than a man my age perhaps should.

She loved the musical Salad Days
I thought it silly, hopelessly out-of-date
But now I think it sweet, romantic, endearing, catchy, funny
I listen to my CD of the music often, I even went to see a production.

Just the other day I saw my father
He was balancing his books
Going through all his bank statements, checking off his credit card receipts
Tutting, just like I do when I do mine.

Had I the power to look back in time
Would I see some of these traits and habits in my grandparents?
And even in their parents?
I think I would.
I would be happy to do so.

Graham Brown