Today is Fireworks' Day in England. In the 50's London of my childhood I remember building an effigy of Guy Fawkes, who tried to overthrow Parliament some hundreds of years ago (history buffs please forgive the vagueness and google him yourselves), parking it on the front steps and asking for donations of pennies for my fireworks fund. "Penny for the old Guy ?" we'd weasel to our neighbours. Mine was crafted from an old pair of pyjamas stuffed with newspaper and a face drawn on a bit of old tea towel for the head and wasn't very handsome. I had no plans to burn it either, the way you were supposed to. Too big for our fireplace and no local bonfire that I knew about.
Sometimes kids and teens would randomly build a bonfire in the middle of the road and it would last for a couple of hours before the fire brigade (yes," brigade" my American friends, is what we call it, for soldiers of safety they are) hosed them away. One year my father agreed to take me on a tour of the neighbourhood and ogle whatever fires we could find. The night would be rife with smoke in what was usually a foggy and cold night anyhow and the primitive thrill of being out in the cold and dark, celebrating the death of some old geezer from history, whose effigy was often propped on a chair and stuck in the middle of the bonfires, appealed to my inner savage. Young boys were eager to toss lit "bangers" (not the sausage kind) at anyone's feet and watch out ! The sparks had a nasty sting. I came home that night with my black stockings riddled with so many tiny holes you'd have though I was wearing expensive crocheted lace jobs.
My mother wasn't very keen on firework night and sometimes tried to pretend she'd forgotten because after all she was a Scot and Guy Fawkes was not. I wasn't buying it though. How could she not see the kids and their stuffed Guys in pushchairs or broken down prams parked at tube stations and in shop doorways begging for pennies? I can imagine her puffing on her cigarette, head down, sprinting past the poor mites and being determinedly Scottish about it all.
She conceded to sparklers though and allowed these in the kitchen where we whirled them around in the dark oohing at the illusions of lighted circles hanging in the air, next to Mum's lighted cigarette,just sort of hanging there on its own.
Last time I visited London on November 5th, there were kids in Hallowe'en costumes and pumpkins carved into jack o' lanterns for God's sake watching parent-controlled orderly firework displays from a safe distance and bangers were banned. Not much thrill for the inner savage any more. The American Empire has its revenge in subtle ways, infiltrating the local customs, or so I thought. "Dinna be so daft, lassie. Hallowe'en started in Scotland", scorned my mother as she blew out smoke through her nostrils with contempt.
Oh yeah and did you also know that one of my ancestors invented the bicycle too? Look it up for yourself.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Well, Rock Me !
At the Burlington Grammar School (founded in 1699 for the Daughters of Impoverished Nobility, and a Church of England establishment) we started each day with Assembly in a large hall. The head mistress, a spinster like most of the teachers, came on stage in her black academic gown over a grey suit, white blouse buttoned at the throat, shorted permed hair the same colour as the suit, her legs a little heavy and not very shapely, though organ pipes come to mind. She would read something that was supposed to be inspirational either from the bible or Pilgrim's Progress while some of us dozed or fidgeted, sitting cross-legged on the polished parquet floor. Then we would all stand and blare the words to a standard hymn Rock of Ages, being one. Then announcements, then saying (not actually praying, at least I wasn't) the Our Father on our knees, then filing out of the hall and past the gym teacher who conducted a uniform check: demerits for wearing seamless stockings, because they made our legs look bare naked. Gasp !
In my second year at this illustrious establishment, an imported phenomenon exploded and spread like a virus. It was called American Rock Music and once you had been exposed to it you were permanently infected and became a teenager ! Bill Haley and his Comets' hit, Rock Around the Clock sent us reeling, followed by Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Fats Domino and Buddy Holly whose twanging and howling had us twirling and jiving with each other in the playground, in the hallways and in the gym at break times. And the spinsters Did Not Approve of this any more than seamless stockings, which of course made it even more fun for us, especially those of us from the working class and definitely not Daughters of Impoverished Nobility.
The very few married teachers were often more lighthearted than the Spinsters, and one who was a math teacher allowed us to giggle and sing a few bars of Rock Around the Clock when we were struggling with a geometry lesson in which we counted and calculated degrees as one o'clock, two o'clock and so on. "I must say it IS rather catchy" she said, dusting chalk from her teacher's smock, and tapping her feet. Math and music are supposedly scientifically connected somehow, both involve counting at least. My love of rock music did nothing for my grades and I fell behind miserably. Having a great sense of rhythm and solving math problems never quite meshed in the form of equal talent for me. I got the drummer's end of the stick I'm afraid and college admissions don't give a toss about that.
Which makes me think in my usual non-linear fashion about what are called rocks in America and rocks in England. Completely different beast. A rock to Brits is large, something you'd move with a crane, otherwise it's just a stone. But then stones are also a measure of weight (14 pounds) and also the name for the thing found in the centre of plums and peaches. The pit is what is inside the stone. In America the stone is called a pit. Perhaps by now you might wonder if I'm stoned as I muddle my way through here. (Honestly I only inhaled a couple of times decades ago and threw up instantly, so no, not a fan actually). Anyway I was recently handed a little smooth black stone jobbie, which the American presenter called a rock, and which I was supposed to carry around for a while as a reminder of something. I hated to be disagreeable with this truly kind and lovely person by pointing out that one could never actually fit a proper rock into anything like a pocket. I've simply given up on the language barrier and just trudge along being as forgiving as I can.
But long, long ago, children, in a land far, far away and even before Elvis and Little Richard were born, good little girls and boys were given thick and long sticks of pink and white peppermint rock candy. You could only buy them at holiday resorts whose names would be printed in red through the entire centre and no matter how far down you sucked and licked, the name was always there. Brighton. Blackpool. Margate. But I was a naughty little girl who was never good at licking her stick of rock nice and slowly to make it last days and days as one of my coolly controlled (and no doubt true descendant of Impoverished Nobility) school friends was able to. She also managed to actually save her pocket money and I'm sure today she is a great success based on a strong ethic of personal discipline in all areas of her life. At best, my rock was mercilessly crunched to death in about ten minutes. Not surprisingly I had the most rotten teeth as a child and if I have to blame anything, I'll pin it happily on the rock.
In my second year at this illustrious establishment, an imported phenomenon exploded and spread like a virus. It was called American Rock Music and once you had been exposed to it you were permanently infected and became a teenager ! Bill Haley and his Comets' hit, Rock Around the Clock sent us reeling, followed by Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Fats Domino and Buddy Holly whose twanging and howling had us twirling and jiving with each other in the playground, in the hallways and in the gym at break times. And the spinsters Did Not Approve of this any more than seamless stockings, which of course made it even more fun for us, especially those of us from the working class and definitely not Daughters of Impoverished Nobility.
The very few married teachers were often more lighthearted than the Spinsters, and one who was a math teacher allowed us to giggle and sing a few bars of Rock Around the Clock when we were struggling with a geometry lesson in which we counted and calculated degrees as one o'clock, two o'clock and so on. "I must say it IS rather catchy" she said, dusting chalk from her teacher's smock, and tapping her feet. Math and music are supposedly scientifically connected somehow, both involve counting at least. My love of rock music did nothing for my grades and I fell behind miserably. Having a great sense of rhythm and solving math problems never quite meshed in the form of equal talent for me. I got the drummer's end of the stick I'm afraid and college admissions don't give a toss about that.
Which makes me think in my usual non-linear fashion about what are called rocks in America and rocks in England. Completely different beast. A rock to Brits is large, something you'd move with a crane, otherwise it's just a stone. But then stones are also a measure of weight (14 pounds) and also the name for the thing found in the centre of plums and peaches. The pit is what is inside the stone. In America the stone is called a pit. Perhaps by now you might wonder if I'm stoned as I muddle my way through here. (Honestly I only inhaled a couple of times decades ago and threw up instantly, so no, not a fan actually). Anyway I was recently handed a little smooth black stone jobbie, which the American presenter called a rock, and which I was supposed to carry around for a while as a reminder of something. I hated to be disagreeable with this truly kind and lovely person by pointing out that one could never actually fit a proper rock into anything like a pocket. I've simply given up on the language barrier and just trudge along being as forgiving as I can.
But long, long ago, children, in a land far, far away and even before Elvis and Little Richard were born, good little girls and boys were given thick and long sticks of pink and white peppermint rock candy. You could only buy them at holiday resorts whose names would be printed in red through the entire centre and no matter how far down you sucked and licked, the name was always there. Brighton. Blackpool. Margate. But I was a naughty little girl who was never good at licking her stick of rock nice and slowly to make it last days and days as one of my coolly controlled (and no doubt true descendant of Impoverished Nobility) school friends was able to. She also managed to actually save her pocket money and I'm sure today she is a great success based on a strong ethic of personal discipline in all areas of her life. At best, my rock was mercilessly crunched to death in about ten minutes. Not surprisingly I had the most rotten teeth as a child and if I have to blame anything, I'll pin it happily on the rock.
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