02. THE BEGINNING

Naturally, and for many years, my life was entwined in one manner or another with the Barbican; its aura still pulses within my blood as does the sea, even though it is known as illusion. The Barbican here presented is when my My Delight was always tied up when not at sea and she was not unlike the small vessels shown in the photo.

The Barbican, Plymouth

My father, born on Aug 7, 1907, married my mother Freda Lillian of Devonport, Plymouth, when he was 24. How his life was before that time cannot be determined, but he was a serious and determined young man.

His father was a tough old bird called George Edward (nicknamed Monty) and his mother, who must have been a sturdy creature whom I remember very slightly, was Jessie Matilda.

They lived at 2 Lambhay Hill when Vera Irene, their first child, was born in November of 1905 and by the time my father was born on Aug 7 1907 they had shifted on to no 2 Castle Street, where I was eventually born.

I remember little of my father's brothers and sisters, for many of whom my father had great affect. All I remember was the eldest, Vera, then there was Bob, George, Frank, Bill, Rose, Stan, Sid, Leonard, Albert and Charlie, the twins, and Maude. The names are fragile in my mind, as all in mind and body is impermanent.

That we were a humble fisherman family there is no doubt, for generations it had been that way. Even way back in 1798 Richard Easton, a fisherman, was born and married  Eliza née Bound, who was born a year later in 1799.  They had at least 8 children. After them came John Record Easton born in 1821 whose son John born in 1849 married Mary Ann Dicks in 1866 and brought my Grandfather, George Edward Easton (Monty) into the world in 1876. He was about eighty or more when I knew him, a stooped wirey little man.

My life after Castle Street, into a different world which my father had now thrust me, consisted only of the balcony of my new home.

That was my world. It was quite large, sufficient to ride a red tricycle. The balcony was connected to the next house on the terrace, but in the other direction there was a large gap to the next terraced house.

And here lay my first and perhaps one of the most important Dharma lessons, for it remained indelible.

I was at that time, three and a bit, and my brother David Geoffrey had entered the world. On that balcony, whenever I was out there, appeared on the neighboring balcony most distant, a boy. I know his form well, but his name, though unimportant, escapes me. Perhaps I never knew, for names were not important.

He was ill with some problem that left him immobile and was clearly happy, though lonely, with no brothers or sisters that I know of. We waved and somehow communicated. He was older than I was by many years. He had a hobby; he made little wooden toys. It brought him great joy and what is important was that he wanted to share.

What a wonderful word that is, "share"; few know today what that experience is, but I learned it early, for he threw a line across from balcony to balcony and sent across a new toy every time he was there, mostly cars and the like, whenever he made one. Beautiful they were and painted brightly.

The toys have faded and how I played with them has gone, but the "sharing" concept has not. Nor was it lost on me, even in that early time, the fact that within his illness there was life and abundance and joy.

One may ask what I shared with him. And that is an important point.

I shared his presence and sense of life and projected to him my appreciation, not of the gift, but the spirit involved.

A valuable lesson, for even within the true and profound religions when there is a God involved there must be "for the correct communication with Him", a truly identity-less receiver.

No doubt within me identity was beginning its nurture, but beyond that was the overwhelming power of this communication without words by means of a simple line and the vision of a figure that had no name, just the experience of form.

From such little acts, not commandments nor the beauty of stained glass windows or elegant preachers, arises an understanding of true inner compassion and benevolence born.

There was second lesson that I captured later. The body is fragile but if the mind can generate experiences without greed then that body is really alive.

 I was no more than five and my brother three, when that terrace was the scene of another indelible lesson.

My brother David was sitting on the wall, for it was not too high and somehow he had climbed up there. He was laughing and I cycled round and round on a red tricycle. I carried a broom and every now and again pretended to strike at him with it. It seemed like innocent great fun ... but the best laid plans of innocence, like those of mice and men, ofttimes go astray.

I hit him with the broom and he fell off the wall and hit his head on the a rail of an iron beadstead on the balcony. I remember the shock. He cried out and my mother rushed out. He ran to her and pushed his head into her for comfort and she placed her right hand on his head.

She drew it away and it was filled with dripping blood. It seemed so much. She rushed inside and once again memory leaves me blank, but I remember my first incredible great flood of concern, but more than that, "culpability".

It was my fault. David had a few stitches, but what was important, as it was through all my years as a child, was that there was no punishment, either from my mother or my father. There was no "you are forbidden to do this or that". There was transmitted a sense of immediate culpability at the moment of the action, but after that moment I never was led to feel blame or the like.

The choice to err freely was mine and to take the responsibility, but never to experience the culpability which is thrust on children from parents or schools.

Is it possible that that one incident acted as the base for all the errors I had committed, the seed to be free of a mindless culpability, but at the same time taking full responsibility for error? I believe so, for culpability was never conditioned in my whole childhood. I was not once punished by my parents and always given complete and absolute freedom, accompanied by sage advice, which I am sure I often discarded and encountered the error later on.

I went to school at about four and I remember the little desks and the children around me. It was called Smeaton College. My father wanted me to go to school, and a good one, for he had never had that pleasure.

I entered with the other students with great tranquility, but then had the great misfortune during one class of being caught looking up a little girl's frock.

It could have been nothing... an innocent curiosity for "sex" as such does not, or did not in those times, raise its ugly head. Anyway, I was theoretically disgraced, my mother called for and I was sent home.

Neither she nor my father were angry ... being sent home was natural.,.. but there was no sense of guilt passed into my mind and it was explained, not that it was an error, but that society did not understand or approve, even though the little girl seemed to enjoy the prank as much as I.

One other incident bears the telling at this time. For some reason that remains obscure. One day I decided not to go to school and go on an excursion. I was perhaps six.

Somehow or other I managed to get down to the Mayflower Steps in the Barbican and board the Mountbatten Ferry. Then managed to get off at Mountbatten, which was a peninsula maybe a mile or so across the way from Plymouth Hoe where there was an Air Force Station.

I cannot imagine the worry that swept over my mother and what she even did, but without communications, for there was no phone in our humble house. However, a kindly airman found me wandering  in the Mountbatten base and somehow got me home.

I do not recall my homecoming, but it was treated, when my father came home, exactly as what it was, "An Adventure".  Indeed the benefits of favorable circumstances cannot be underestimated, but favorable circumstances can be built for oneself and one's family at any moment.

All one has to remember that in all Buddha Dharma there is no CULPABILITY and no REGRET or RECRIMINATION... There is no such thing as punishment that is valid... UNDERSTANDING leaves nothing to forgive.

At Smeaton College, apart from those incidents and presenting myself in some school pageant with the help of my grandmother,  appearing as one of three kittens "who had lost their mittens," there was little else to report.

Three little kittens they lost their mittens, and they began to cry,

"Oh mother dear, we sadly fear that we have lost our mittens."

"What! Lost your mittens, you naughty kittens! 

Then you shall have no pie."

"Meeow, meeow, meeow, now we shall have no pie."

The three little kittens they found their mittens,

And they began to cry,

"Oh mother dear, see here, see here 

For we have found our mittens."

"Put on your mittens, you silly kittens

And you shall have some pie"

"Meeow, meeow, meeow,

Now let us have some pie."

The three little kittens put on their mittens

And soon ate up the pie,

"Oh mother dear, we greatly fear 

That we have soiled our mittens."

"What! soiled you mittens, you naughty kittens!"

Then they began to cry, "Meeow, meeow, meeow"

Then they began to sigh.

The three little kittens they washed their mittens

And hung them out to dry,

"Oh mother dear, do you not hear

That we have washed our mittens."

"What! washed your mittens, you are good kittens."

But I smell a rat close by, 

"Meeow, meeow, meeow" we smell a rat close by...

An early nursery rhyme that even today is thrust upon young children. The mistaken theme "do bad and you will be punished, do good and you will be rewarded."  What a sad commentary on human culture and civilization.

So I was a kitten that had lost its mitten, thanks to my grandmother's costume, but she was adept at making almost everything in cloth, twine, cotton, fur and wool and so I received one day a toy soldier, about a foot tall. But it was not just any old toy soldier, it was a doll she had made herself. It was knitted in wool and stuffed with wool. His uniform was bright red coat and he wore dark blue trousers with a yellow stripe running from top to bottom on each side. He was a guardsman with his busby. A precious thing.

Her idea was that boys could have dolls. She was correct, of course, and I enjoyed the soldier doll for many years. He was always on guard, for he was a guardsman and never went to war even in my head. My war games were to come later, when my little soldier was put aside but not forgotten.