“The past is gone – forget it. Tomorrow doesn’t exist. Today is here, enjoy it,” mother would intone before launching into interminable reminiscences about her unhappy youth on the farm.
Recollecting the past is like living a second time without the stress, and is no sillier than thinking about what happened yesterday. Looserobes’ reminiscences of naughty telephone calls are as ‘real’ as this morning’s breakfast conversation, and just as inaccessible. Solitaire’s memories of caddying days are a confirmation of his present life, and resonate with those of us who also had to earn our keep as kids.
By the time I was twelve I was running the forecourt of Dad’s service station on Saturday mornings – checking oil water tyres and battery as well as pumping gas, manning the till and selling spare parts while he ran the workshop. At the end of the morning I had to balance sales and cash, check petrol volumes against receipts, cash up and close shop.
Dad trusted me completely – didn't even check my figures, but also didn't pay me. He reckoned I had to earn my keep, although I also mowed lawns at home and did the dishes and kept my room spotless. To earn pocket money I took on a paper round and by the time I was fourteen was mowing lawns and doing odd jobs for three people who gave me much more than the money. Mrs. Dowman – an eighty year-old Frenchwoman, taught me French, told me I was beau, fort, intelligent et grand, and taught me to love life and nature. Keith. Dowdd, an ex-dancer whose manly charms had been in demand in nude follies in London and Berlin in the 1920’s; [he had posters to prove it] told me I was lithe and well put together as he passed on the secrets of ‘creative dance’; skills that guaranteed second-string employment for the next thirty-five years. The third member of the trio was Mrs. Williams, a wealthy wife who told me I was beautiful and clever and gave me the run of her extensive library and record collection. In exchange, I modelled for her life drawing classes and assisted in the setting up of exhibitions. Keith and Mrs. Williams lent me their cars whenever I needed one.
I can't imagine a better combination of mentors for an embryonic entertainer:- conventional, reliable parents, and eccentric older friends with the connections to see me on stage by the time I was fifteen... the age I was in this photo leading the surf club march past.

Comments:

Love the swimming outfit! And you look so serious!!

comment by looserobes on July 8, 2008 3:27 PM ()

It does look Victorian, doesn't it? We only wore that garb for Surf Club competitions and carnivals. It was a very serious business.

reply by clovis on July 8, 2008 7:40 PM ()

comment by lunarhunk on July 8, 2008 1:59 PM ()

You are correct... The past does matter. I understood and forgave my mother her odditiesbecause she talked endlessly about her youth. My Father never talked about his youth so it was fifty years before I understood him. And it's the same with friends -- meet their parents and you understand a great deal.

reply by clovis on July 8, 2008 7:47 PM ()

Great.Is that you?

comment by fredo on July 8, 2008 9:16 AM ()

Yes Fredo, that's me... fifteen and baby-faced, ready to save the world.
Actually I was pretty useless at all the military-type exercises we had to go through in those days, and the others were annoyed that I was chosen to lead the procession.

reply by clovis on July 8, 2008 7:43 PM ()