THE HONEY DEW CAFE CHRONICLES

Tag: writing

  • The Beginning

    The bombs went off all around him as he clung to the side of the hill not knowing whether this was the end.

    This was my father, 28 years old, 1943, a commander of men on the Greek island of Leros during  World War Two. He’d been in the war since day one having signed up to the Royal Navy reserves in 1938.

    Like so many, he saw what was coming.

    But he never really saw what was coming, at least not for him.

    Years of stress and trauma that would leave him shattered at the war’s end. Shattered, unsupported, abandoned by the establishment that lauded him, and left to suck it up. Unequipped to talk about it, not even daring to admit to himself there might be something wrong. No, he was a man, men did not do that, men took a deep breath and carried on, not uttering a word to anyone, never showing weakness.

    Stride forth great warrior, and achieve, achieve, achieve.

    He was a war hero. He received the DSC for incredible acts of bravery, saving the lives of so many at the risk of his own. Enrolled into the Greek Sacred Regiment, he was nicknamed as one of the ‘Vikings of the Aegean’ by the local Greek partisans.

    Then he came home…

    My father.

    A wild character.

    He married my mother in early 1949, and they had their first child, Geoff, born in December of that year, then came my sister Georgie in 1952, my brother Mike in 1953 and me, in 1959.

    But he was wild, off the rails.

    He was a business wizard, turning deals, making connections, partying, gambling, not paying his taxes; everyone’s friend, what a character, what a man.

    Good old Frank.

    Good old Frank. He made my mum’s life hell, oh the stories she told me… I had to ask her to stop.

    Those years of childhood are misty to me, relying more on the stories of others, photos, and grainy home movies, movies and photos that make everything look so normal, a normal, well-to-do happy family.

    I have little snapshots mind you: being bounced up and down on my father’s tummy, him smiling up at me; the feeling of my father’s rough, unshaven cheek when giving him a kiss;  him taking me to see his yacht, acquired through some complex gambling debt from his buddy Sir Max Aitkin, his war had moved him into a giddy other world; …and of my mother trying to strangle him with his necktie in the kitchen when I was about 5 years old…

    Without knowing why, I was lost and confused, and scared.

    The devil used to speak to me.

    That is why I cut up the expensive silk curtains mum.

    I confess, I became wild and reckless myself, yet when I look back, I don’t really remember, I only see the mask; the nice guy, the reliable, good old Dave the guy everybody likes.

    What did everybody else see?

    Who knows?

    When my father died when I was 6 years old my world ended. He had told me, me and my sister, who was 7 years older than me, that he was going to kill himself. I did not know what he meant, what on earth can that mean.?

    I remember sitting in his lap, him in the armchair by the front door, he was crying, crying with such depth and despair, and I could do nothing. I then see the front door open and him gone, and I never saw him again.

    Did this really happen? I don’t know, but it is in me as clear as if it did, so something happened.

    Many years later, more than thirty, I was sitting in a small cottage up the side of the mountain in a remote part of Co. Leitrim, Ireland where I was living and working,  reading ‘FAMILIES and how to SURVIVE Them’ by John Cleese and Dr Robin Skynner.  What I had just read I don’t remember, but what I do remember was that I was hit by a  realisation, as a bolt from the blue. The book fell from my hand to the floor, I was stunned as I said quietly, out loud, “Oh, my god, I killed my dad”.

    My father died by suicide when I was 6 and I disappeared inside of myself. I became a quiet, withdrawn boy. I struggled at school. I was no trouble but I was not anything else either. My mother tried to bring me out of myself by signing me up to a child modelling agency, it was torture, I hated every minute of it, but I did what was expected of me. Anything to keep me safe. Then it emerged I was not doing well in my school work. It was an independent school and my mother was not willing to keep struggling with paying the fees if it was not going to get anywhere and she let me know that unless things improved I would be sent to the local state school.

    This terrified me, so I turned things around and excelled.

    Anything to survive. I got through. I went onto a Public School.

    In the background were my brothers and sister, and as far as I was concerned I was one of them. I did not relate to boys of my own age, but more with them, it was them that I would like to hang around with.

    Mike 6 years older, the Golden boy and my personal tormentor, Georgie, 7 years older, bright and intriguing with her cool friends, and then there was Geoff. 10 years older and in a band.

    A band that was going places. On TV, on tour with Gilbert O’Sullivan and Led Zeppelin, it was a giddy world. I learned to drink young, 11, getting drunk for the first time at my brother Geoff’s 21st birthday party. I met TV celebrities, even getting drunk at a BBC after show celebration dinner at a Chinese restaurant. What was I, 12, 13 , 14 maybe? Everyone thought it was funny!

    I would go with my mother during the school holidays to Ibiza and have to hang out with her expat cronies, and they would find the drunk little teenager cute.

    Geoff, though he was the one. He was the glory child, he was going places. He was the one who would try to buck me up, get me to grasp the nettle of life, but I was so afraid, and I was in awe of him.

    And then everything fell apart. The band kicked him out, he tried to remake himself  but it all unravelled.

    It was the Easter school holidays 1975. Mum was off to Ibiza again but I refused to go. I was 15 I would stay at home with my brothers. Then the phone call came, which I answered. Geoff was dead, suicide.

    Again suicide.

    This is where it ends for me, where my memory became erased. Blank.

    I then spent years thinking I was okay.

    Years of dangerous behaviour starting with drinking under age. I somehow kept afloat training to be a computer programmer, going from job to job, but the nice guy was off the rails. Driving like a mad man fuelled on alcohol, relishing the screams of the girls in the car. Riding motorbikes fast, high on Dodos and wine. Taking speed, mushrooms, Ganja, heroin even, and more alcohol; always alcohol.

    I wove through this in one form or another for years and years, always being the lovely guy, always getting away with it, but I never saw myself. I never saw how I had come to hate my father, and then to hate his surrogate, Geoff, and how I was trying to kill them by trying every which way I could to kill them within me. To kill me.

    These stories, these poems, these whatever’s that will appear here are what I promise are the raw truth as best as I can tell. It.

    These are my stories. My stories of a boy trying to become a man, a good man, strong man.

    Sure, I was always reliable, sincere, honest and trust worthy, these were all masks to help hide the rage, the lost warrior within me, the hapless hero throwing himself against the enemies guns.

    I have started to wake up now, and that is another story in itself, which will appear here.

    I invite you to stay with me as this story unfolds, in all its imperfections, and in no particular order, and with no particular moral or point to make. Just my exploration, my stories; make of it what you will. I hope through this I will learn. Learn who I was, who I am now, and who I am becoming.

    So, let us begin.

  • My Self

    It descends like a weary fog,

    Sending doubt

    Scattering through thoughts,

    The body feeling slow,

    Heavy,

    Clumsy.


    From where it comes

    I do not know,

    How it turns clarity

    To dust,

    I do not know.

    What to trust?


    My self,

    That’s what.

    Turn to my self,

    Myself,

    Myself who loves me, I can trust myself.

  • Listen

    There,

    There in the shadows,

    Almost unseen,

    There it lies,

    Almost unseen,

    But felt.

    A soft unease speaks,

    About what

    You are not sure,

    Yet it speaks,

    It calls for your attention,

    It needs you to hear.

    So best be still,

    Lest it startles,

    Best be still,

    Yet quietly listen.

    As it speaks,

    Quietly listen.

  • Harmony

    Talk now of the higher things,

    Love,

    Compassion,

    Wisdom,

    So that we may all

    Come together,

    Walking forward,

    Hand in hand,

    Whichever way

    We need to go.

    Harmony is the tune,

    Joyful difference the chorus,

    Let it be

    That we all

    In this world

    See each other,

    Smile, bow,

    And set ourselves,

    And each other,

    Free.

  • New dawn

    Three swallows,

    Then four,

    Eight,

    A multitude,

    As dawn breaks.

    A new world rises,

    Sung in

    By a host of angels,

    As we fly,

    Fly high with the swallows.

  • Reaction

    What do I know?

    Where do I react from?

    I can feel slighted, picked upon, have my nose put out of joint. Is it based on anything, or is it just old muddy water being stirred up clouding my vision?

    A lot of the time I really don’t know. I hear something, feel something, first inside and then it grows and grows, until, unless I am very sharp and clear sighted, very grounded and in tune, it spills out into the world and the merry-go-round begins.

    It always feels, of course, their fault. They said this, they did that, but what of it? And anyway in that state, and that which follows how can I know anything? The amygdala has locked and loaded, the cortisol and adrenaline are up and running, and all now is a threat to be repelled.

    Or, unfortunately, as so often is the case, to poke and aggravate even more, at times turning the relatively benign into the hostile.

    I am human, and therefore I am a reactive being.

    I react.

    The reaction is often strong.

    I start to go further off the rails until it is hard to come back.

    Oh dear.

    How to deal with this?

    Well, it starts here. By noticing, and then by reacting a little less often, or at least by noticing the reaction and seeing if I can let it ride out. Time moves very first when the adrenaline is up so alertness is required, brakes must be applied toute sweet.

    And then a breath, and another breath, and then one more.

    Only then, as the reaction subsides, can I evaluate what I have heard, or seen, and then respond. Respond from a place of wisdom and understanding.

    I fail at this often, and the fall out lingers, fingers get pointed, blame gets laid.

    However, each time I fail I can learn.  Each time I notice I have failed, I can wrap myself in love and compassion, forgive myself, forgive my perceived tormentor and vow to try again.

    This way success will grow in the bright light of failure. It probably has already, yet the depth of feeling when feeling slighted is strong and it feels there is no hope.

    There is hope.

    Is begins now.

    Today.

    It grows in every failure seen.

    It grows in every success celebrated. This is my quest, and its reward will be mine and all those I know and love.

  • Emotional Presence

    I was taking part in an online session with a men’s group that I am part of, the Man Program led by Andy Nathan. We were on week 6 of ‘The Masks Men Wear’, and looking into what Andy had named as the mask of the ‘Uninitiated Man’.

    We went in pairs to breakout rooms to examine a few questions, the crux of which was “… are you effectively forcing your partner to be the ‘Man of the House’ emotionally, so you can stay the ‘Child’… If she started acting exactly like you tomorrow – be reactive, check-out – would your family survive?”.

    Well my first reaction was, well of course not. Dorothy and I are do regular dialogues and go deep into many a difficult topic, and always come to a better place for it. Then in the course of the discussion I  had with my breakout buddy I had a quick and sudden realisation: “oh shit, yes I do!”.

    Now, this is not to say I don’t ever take the initiative and bring things forward, difficult and challenging things at times, but on the whole it is Dorothy who brings the truly sticky stuff forward, subjects I often feel uncomfortable with and feel quite defensive and resentful about.

    I realised that I often scold myself for not bringing up this and that, or even find myself saying to myself “… what about…? And, … huh, why don’t I ever challenge her on this…”, and I realised it could often be a rather childish and petulant response. What an eye opener!

    I am a pretty emotionally mature and self-reflective man, yet I still have these behaviour patterns that go way back, default modes of behaviour I hardly even notice because they are so ingrained. I only notice the reactions, not the behaviour pattern.

    It all, of course goes back to childhood, not being taught how do to things any differently, and certainly in my case not having any fatherly guidance. I was totally abandoned by my father, and then my surrogate father, and my mother was often distant, dealing with her own struggles, so a lot of the time my family operated in a purely functional, though loving, way.

    No wonder this is how I largely operate within relationships. Doing, being practical, getting things done and so forth, whilst thinking I am wonderfully emotionally available when a lot of the time I am not, and Dorothy is usually the one who has to pull us back on track when we are beginning to lose connection and are in danger of drifting apart, whilst I quietly tiptoe along thinking that as long as I don’t make any waves, and get ‘the jobs done’ all will be grand.

    But no this is not good enough, and to answer the other question, “… what if she started acting exactly like you tomorrow?” , well we would slowly drift further and further apart, until our relationship became emptier and emptier and then died altogether.

    So, now I see it, now I realise it. It does not mean that things will suddenly be oh, so easy, no, but it does mean that I now know where the work is, the work that I need to do, and will keep on needing to do.

    This journey, working with others, to work on myself to become a better man, a man that my beloved can see and trust and rely upon, feel safe with, is profound and is always ongoing, and always requiring vigilance. It requires doing the work, and it is worth it.

    Yes, at times it will make me feel uncomfortable and resentful, tired and even angry, but I am able to always return to the core of this endeavour and see why it feels that way. It feels that because something deeply ingrained, that needs to be examined and challenged is being put in the spotlight and is resisting. Bring it on. I thank Dorothy for her persistence and vigilance in bringing important things to my attention, and I thank myself for engaging with it and feeling what I feel and reflecting on it and then doing the work. I have a come a long way, and the journey goes on, the journey to be man I want to be: there, visible, reliable, strong, vulnerable, honest, a man of integrity, and to be seen as such.

  • The Fugitive

    When I was a kid, I loved TV shows whose main characters were outcasts and loners; The Fugitive, Branded, The Incredible Hulk.

    The thought of being free from everything and everyone, never having to get close but always on the move, following the lonely yet noble road, spoke to something deep inside of me. It felt safe from the pain and difficulties of life, the pain and difficulties of relationships. If I were to wander unattached, no harm could come to me, and should difficulties come my way I could simply move on, even from those I had formed a bond with, carrying the warn, comforting, glow of loss in my heart whilst I strode into the wild blue yonder with a wistful smile upon my lips.

    To an extent I lived a version of this for a good chunk of my life. In my younger adult years I would fall in and out of romantic relationships with ease, ending them while the going was good to ensure feeling safe, and not having to face myself. The one time in my late twenties I let this slip, I was devastated by the end of what became a 7 year relationship, the pain of which brought me to the darkest of places.

    I then wandered from here to there for the next twenty years, both emotionally and physically, keeping my distance, whilst also seeking connection. It was a delicate balancing act, aided by partying, weed and India.

    However, somewhere along the way I was always learning, a deeper wiser part of me would from time to time emerge and help guide me, which in time brought me to where I am now; settled, and in a loving and nourishing, committed relationship, in which I will happily spend the rest of my days. To this day, when trouble brews and difficulties arise, I can feel that desire to ‘break free’ arise. The idea that all I need do is to cut loose and move on has a powerful allure. However, I am wiser now, and I know that is a lonely path to take, and a path that ultimately will break my heart. I yearn for connection, love and mutual respect; I yearn to care about others and for them to care about me, and now I am learning that this will always involve friction, it will always involve difficulties, and it is in facing these that one comes to know oneself, to gain compassion for oneself and for others. It is how I will grow, and my relationships will deepen, it is how I will become more of the man I want to be, and others will want to know.

  • Detroit – Christmas 1978

    I was 19 years old and the shadow of Geoff’s suicide 3 years earlier was hanging over me. It was hanging over all of us. My mother, Georgie, Mike, and me. Yes, it was over all of us, but without me hardly even noticing, it was hanging over me and weighing me down. But we didn’t talk about those sort of things, so how was I to know?

    Oh, but a part of me knew, and it acted out. I had struggled through my O’ Levels with the help of my sister. I remember very little of the summer holidays after that except meeting my first ‘proper’ girlfriend. Michelle Harms. This turned out to be a nightmare relationship where I was emotionally abused and pushed into losing my virginity before I was ready, in very traumatic circumstances. It left it scars for many years to come. I then slipped into the lower-sixth in the autumn just because… what else was I going to do?

    I had no interest in school anymore, feeling eternally lost, bored and disillusioned, and soon began to play truant, commit acts of petty vandalism and be generally belligerent and uncooperative with my teachers, very rarely handing in any homework. I staggered through the winter term being tolerated by the school hierarchy, even the fearsome deputy headmaster, Mr. Stokes, went easy on me. No doubt they felt sorry for me. But nobody thought about actually talking to me about what might be going on.

    The only good thing that came out of that term was meeting Jon Medlam. His family had just moved to the area from Solihull and he joined Merchant Taylors’ School that autumn and was in my class. We quickly became friends, we seemed to ‘get each other’ and remained close friends until his very sad death from lung cancer at the age of 61. Thank heavens we remain blissfully unaware of the tragedies up ahead.

    Eventually the Christmas holidays came around and after receiving very discouraging school reports, my mother sat me down and it was agreed that if I could come up with a good alternative plan, it was time for me to leave school.

    So, all I needed was an alternative plan, great. I did some research. I decided “I want to train as a Formula One racing driver”. “No” says mother. Oh. “Well how about a professional golfer, you being a more than keen golfer yourself?” “No says mother”. Hmm.

    I spotted an advert in the Dail Mail “Train to Become a Computer Programmer, the Thing of the Future!”. My mother thought it over.  “Yes” says mother. So the die was cast and I signed up at the School of Computer Technology in Oxford Street. I was 17 years old, free of school and on my way.

    I excelled at the course. It was all very exciting. Commuting up to London every day and no longer having to endure the petty tyranny of an English public school. My friends envied me. Computers. Wow! This was 1977, and nobody knew anything much about computers except from what they saw on Tomorrow’s World. This was exciting stuff. It was almost as good as becoming an astronaut.

    I got a distinction in my City & Guilds in Computer Programming and started to look around for what to do next. In those days the next step was an HND in Computer Studies, so I applied to Hatfield College, but then I spotted a recruitment advert for the trainee computer programmer program at the London Borough of Camden. My computer programming tutor advised me to apply, saying now I had the basics, hands on experience was worth more than any college course.

    I’d had enough of classrooms and wanted to get into the real world; I applied. They had two positions available and the selection process was by competition: an exam followed by an interview for those who scored high enough. There were about two hundred people in the exam hall. I passed the exam. I had the interview. I got one of the spots. So shortly after my 18th birthday I started at the London Borough of Camden as a Trainee Computer Programmer along with the other successful candidate, Jan, a lad from Poland, whose family had fled the Iron Curtain of the Soviet Union.

    I told my mum I wanted to leave home, and she helped me find a house to rent that I ended up sharing with another school friend who had left to go into the world of work, and his two brothers. That was a life lesson. My mate Frank was grand, we’d always got on, but his brothers were a pain. His older brother, Tim, was a tyrant who decided he had to be in charge of us younger folk, and his younger brother Simon, was an arrogant nuisance of a toe rag who being only 16 was still at school. Frank’s father was a doctor and  working in Switzerland at the time and saw this as a great opportunity to offload the kids so his wife could join him out there. I was outnumbered.

    What a year it was. I worked away at the London Borough of Camden and after six months graduated from Trainee Programmer to Junior Programmer. Life at the council was easy going and the path ahead was clearly laid out with structured pay increases and promotions all overseen by the union. Closed shops still existed in pre-Thatcher 1977 so my future was assured. But I was restless, which was to become a hallmark of my life.

    I started to cast around for opportunities in the more volatile but what appeared to be more rewarding and lucrative private sector. So, very much to the chagrin of some of my more stalwart council colleagues, shortly after getting my Junior Programmer wings I landed a job with a merchant bank in the City of London. I was now a Programmer, no Trainee or Junior attached.

    Meanwhile I was partying away and leading the generally raucous life style of an 18 year old with money to burn, and doing my best to torment Frank’s older brother who clearly found us insufferable. This was all only two years after Geoff’s suicide and I was doing my utmost to bury that trauma under a haze of parties, booze and my new friend, marijuana. Add into this heady mix the discovery on amphetamines, French Speckled Blues they were called, and I was flying it.

    Still, I made it to work most days and was doing well, but it was not long before I became restless again, and started to look around for an opportunity to move on. This was not so easy in the London of the seventies as most careers then required a long term commitment to one employer, many people staying with the same firm for life. Then I spotted an advert in Computer Weekly.

    An American firm called PMI was recruiting bright and promising young professionals to come and work in the USA. For the successful candidates there was the promise of unlimited opportunity, with all expenses paid for the move to the States. I was very excited and sent in my application, after several rounds of interviews I was offered a job. Wow, I was going to work in the USA! I could not believe my luck.

    So as October became November in 1978, my mum and sister took me to Heathrow, me in my brand new dark blue wool overcoat, the height of the mature man, my mother and sister sobbing their eyes out. I couldn’t wait to get through to departures. I was 19 years old.

    I flew to New York, and was collected and taken to a hotel and then joined the rest of the new bright eyed recruits for orientation where we were assigned our missions.

    It turned out that PMI was a cowboy outfit hiring gullible foreigners and American misfits who were then rented out to various corporations as contractors who paid a fortune for us. We were paid a pittance but were tied into iron-clad punitive contracts, so there was no escape. PMI, Programming Methods Incorporated, or as we, their luckless employees came to call it, PMI, Piranha Methods Incorporated.

    I was going to be sent to Detroit, Murder City as it was known as in 1978. I was assigned to Ford Motor Company in Dearborn Michigan. I was flown to Detroit and met at the airport by a PMI representative who took me to a motel in Dearborn, walking distance from the car plant. She informed me that she would take me to meet the programming department manager the next day, and presented me with a copy of my CV, which I was informed was referred to as a  Resume, to familiarise myself with. I looked through it and was surprised to find that I was fully experienced in working with machines I’d never seen before and with software I’d never heard of, and I was now apparently 25 years old! I would then have a week to find a place to live and get myself a car, as living in Detroit without a car was not an option. It was November, Detroit is cold, very cold and a long way from home. I had to grow up fast.

    But hey, at least I was away from home, and the darkness that lingered in my family. I soon found a new family, or maybe they found me, the PMI family. We’d all been taken advantage of and so we had to take care of each other. None of us worked in the same companies but we all came together for beers and pool and dope smoking. Graham, an English guy who was a sort of local supervisor took me under his wing. I remember sobbing my eyes out with homesickness and him hugging me to comfort me. When I see the image of that memory I see my brother Geoff. Geoff, my brother who I missed so much, but I did not even realise it.

    I got an apartment in Taylor ‘Tucky, thus called because most of those who lived in Taylor had originated from poor areas in Kentucky during the Great Depression, and had come to work in the car plants of Detroit. My apartment complex was government subsidised and only eligible to people who were officially classified as low-income workers in an area known as ‘the projects’. Being a PMI employee, my salary was low enough to qualify.

    Another PMI er moved in with me, Bob Monaco, a recovering alcoholic with a predilection for gambling, from Queens in New York. 12 years my elder, yet we became good friends.

    What a place it was that I was living. I met some scary people, Vietnam vets, who like my father were totally fucked by their experiences. There was plenty of beer, whisky, marijuana, and guns. Wow! Welcome to the USA.

    I was protected by Carl. An enormous black guy who approached me one day, wearing a shell suit and chunky gold chains. I was nervous. He could see I was nervous. He then smiled and put out his hand. He saw my innocence and vulnerability, declared I was now officially his friend. It made me feel safe.

    I realised I would survive.

    I mean Detroit, 1978. What a buzz! A little middle-class, innocent white boy in the birth place of Motown, I tell you, it was a gas.

    I worked the night shift at Ford’s along with mostly black guys. The coolest dudes a 19 years old English boy could ever meet. The black guys and white guys didn’t really hang out together, but for me it was different. I became known as ‘The English Man’ and was totally welcomed and made part of the crew, going to parties and cruising round in large cars, drinking Bacardi and smoking weed, Dad’s bonhomie shing through. These guys were so cool. Wide lapelled suits and Afros. Wow! And they loved my London suits, especially the tweed. Can you imagine? How innocent. I was 19, going to the States, so I bought a tweed suit. My goodness, I love that 19 year old David.

    My first Christmas  away from home came around and I spent it with Vicky and her cousin Wayne and his wife Marylou. Vicky was part Japanese and part Cherokee, about my age and pretty wild. I had a bit of a crush on her but nothing ever came of it, which was probably for the best, however we did become firm friends. She and her family hailed from Tennessee, and her cousin Wayne was a truck driver, the real deal, just like in the movies; if it were a movie he would have been played by Johnny Depp. We arrived at their house and were warmly welcomed, good old Southern hospitality. That evening Wayne had some of his buddies around for a Christmas eve poker session. We sat around the kitchen table and bottles of Bourbon and Tennessee whiskey were put in front of each of us and off we went. I had no idea how to play poker, but apparently I knew how to drink, which seemed to impress these good old boys. After the game most of them left apart from Wayne’s cousin who stayed on to keep drinking and to drunkenly wail along to Dwayne Eddie songs while twirling a loaded 6 shooter from the holster on his hip – I kid you not. Then he and Wayne had a falling out and stumbled out into the snow and started to beat the hell out of each other while Marylou lamented “not on Christmas eve Wayne!”. They eventually collapsed into the blood spattered snow in hugs and tears and vows of everlasting loyalty. What a night, certainly not like any Christmas eve I’d ever experienced in the middle-class north-western London suburbs, but probably an evening my dad may have been more familiar with back in his war days.

    Is this what it means to be a man dad?  God help me!

    I slept, passed out, on a mattress under the Christmas tree. I was woken up the next morning by Wayne handing me a cigarette and a bottle of beer. “Merry Christmas Dave”. That was December 25th 1978.

    I’d survived once again.

    Now I look back upon it, I more than survived. I had overcome adversity and homesickness and found the resolve to  get through my first Christmas without my family around me, and what a Christmas. Not only my first Christmas away from home, but it was a Christmas without Geoff, and now, after all these years I realise how much I missed him. He had died in April 1975 and his absence at the following three Christmases was profound, but never spoken about, and there I was in the cold snows of Detroit drinking whiskey and playing poker, with gun toting, fist fighting Tennessee good ol’ boys for the fourth.

    Oh, Geoff, how you would have loved to hear that story.

    My brother and my father live on in me, and now I am able to see the strength and resilience that I inherited from them. I am also able to see I am not them and I no longer need to fear the road ahead. Their lives were their lives, their troubles, their burdens theirs alone. After all these years I finally see, and lay down what was never mine.

    Birth Right

    Hello,

    Hello all of you,

    Singing down through the ages,

    Gusts of wind from long gone times

    Playing harp strings on mountain tops 

    Drenched in the sun

    Of memories that should be gone.

    I sing to you.

    A song of now,

    And what is to come,

    I sing of you,

    With love and honour,

    And I sing what is done is done.

    Hear my song and know of

    My love, my honour,

    And know now

    That I leave you where you belong,

    And leave with you all you have endured.

    My inheritance is love and freedom,

    And I turn now to the new day’s rising sun,

    Lay down the burden that was never mine,

    And with a warm heart embrace the new love I have found.