06. INDELIBLE LESSON OF KINDNESS

One of the Stags at the gates of Stag Lodge (Tony Atkins)

It is so clear to me that my father was my model and played a central part in my character building. It is, I am sure, the same in most families, but since my character base as the first child of a father of aversion and natural intelligence was firm, I reflected his image and, rather like Marcus Aurelius, I can point now to the moments in the past when indelible lessons were learned. It does not build perfection, but it builds certain strength and tendencies.

My father always did things completely and forcefully. At Christmas it was not a Christmas stocking but a pillowslip. We celebrated it without Christ, as we would have at Hanukkah if he had known about it. We had the biggest tallest tree available decked out in all radiance with a shining star crowning the top.

Three times of the year were special... Harvest Festival, Easter and Christmas. It was not for any religious reasons, but just because everybody  wanted to enjoy the excitement of children... In other words, they were glad if Children were glad, and for my father that meant all children. We must remember here the importance of that Dharma repeated lesson, "to be Glad when others are correctly glad".

Christmas was the time for my brother and I and a few other children I knew to also share with their parents. So when Christmas came close we were off hunting to find the hazelnuts and other natural fare of winter.

One memorable hunting ground was close to Stag Lodge, which I adored. I always considered that one day I would buy Stag Lodge. I used to always look up with admiration at those magnificent stags as we cycled past and dream.

Eventually I, with my partner, bought our Stag lodge. No Stags out front, but the Seminary has that same magic of the past for me as the old stone walls of the two buildings still carry the energy of the builders.

Anyway, just past the lodge turning to the left and along just always there was always a large wooden gate, broken and always open onto the woods to the treasure, chestnut trees, horse chestnut, for our "conkers", willow and birch catkins, hazelnuts and branches from one of my favorite trees, the holly with its deep green leaves and bright red berries.

We rode home after loaded with our treasures and there was never a picture in our houses which was not "Decked with holly", or a vase that had no fascinating "catkins".

Now all that has gone and civilization has turned precious grass and hedge-growth into cement highways for cars. Simon and Garfunkel said it right, "When will we ever learn? ... when will we ever learn ?"

By that time, my father's side of the family had disappeared altogether from our lives except for Rose, Charlie and Albert and a few other brothers that worked on my father's boats, the Seaplane, St Pierre and Isabelle (my favourite) as well as My Delight of course.

My father liked drawing and his favorite was "tall ships", but at Christmas he painted anew the entire wall of our living room with father Xmas and his reindeer. Then, when strategic parts were covered with glue, we all shared the task of throwing on tinsel. I never knew who took it all off after, for I never took part in it at all.

My grandfather and grandmother had moved to Colesdown Hill before us and had rented the bottom storey of a beautiful old large house. In the garden, I remember, was a large tree. My grandmother called it the monkey puzzle tree, saying it was the only tree the monkey can't climb.

It was about twelve feet tall when I was a child and they can live for one or two thousand years, growing to over a hundred feet. I feel certain someone has by now cut it down because they thought it looked ugly or out of place in the garden. That is the price of progress.

I visited them often and my grandfather would make lead soldiers from several molds he had and I used to paint them with his guidance. I also helped him make cigarettes from a small machine he owned, since it was cheaper than buying the Woodbines that he liked. As a result, he had several beautiful collections of cigarette cards as well as his stamp collection. I remember the tennis, cricket, and footballer cards too. There were many, yet I  loved perhaps most the trains, for they seemed so mysterious.

Both grandparents participated in all that our family did. With other friends called the Bonds they played all sorts of card games, including I remember, one called Nudies, while I, having already been sent to bed at the sleeping hour, crept out and listened under the table.

It was quite an innocent game in which when the game was finished the nude drawn figures counted against you. I believe the normal version is called Hearts.

My mother and father also planted vegetables in our back garden and my brother and I planted flowers. Since all the choice was ours, I chose pansies, delicate and colorful. When other flowers bloomed in the countryside, I had the idea that I could make perfume. I didn't know how of course and spent hours pressing the petals of the flowers and dissolving them in water. Then I gave them as gifts to my mother and grandmother. I enjoyed making and giving and they enjoyed the receiving of these improbable perfumes.

That, you see, is another thing I learned, buying something and giving is no good at all. There must be a full entry of oneself of the giving task.

Another important event took place on my ninth birthday. All my friends and their brothers and sisters at the top of Colesdown Hill were invited to the birthday party. We had, as usual, all sorts of games and prizes and my father joined in everything from Pinning the Tail on the Donkey to Postman's Knock, probably the start of my appreciation for the distaff side of life.

The party was in full swing when my father arrived with a little girl, actually a year older than I. Her name was Thelma Johns, a very pretty girl. Thanks to her I learned a great lesson. It seems that my father had found her at the bottom of the Hill crying her heart out, so he naturally stopped and asked what was wrong. She told him that at the top of the Hill there was party going on and she hadn't been invited.

So she became invited at that moment and entered in all with such joy that the kindness of my father was quite clear as was the value of being kind without cognition.

There was a hint of social justice in his act as well, for she didn't come from a wealthy family. She became the queen of the party and later she became my sweetheart after we started putting little love notes in gaps in the stone walls for each other with the connivance of both groups of our friends, who had now awakened to the fact that there were boys and there were girls.

Now it is different. At that time those sweetheart friendships and kisses started when your friends and her friends wrote cautious notes declaring, "Thelma loves you" or "Arthur loves you", which one immediately denied of course.

Oh where has that beautiful innocence gone?