Being Clarke
This is the first lengthy blog entry here, and I think it needs a little framing. My parents celebrated their 40th anniversary just last year. My three brothers and I came up with the idea of producing a small book of essays - one from each of us - describing what it was like to grow up as a child of two such blessed people. The following was my contribution.
=================================================================================
It's an old wooden slide that starts the trip…
Whenever I think back to my childhood, that old slide in our long back garden is always the first and strongest image to float to the top. It's the pilot of my memory, taking my wandering thoughts by the hand and leading me back through the endless carefree sunny days.
Freeze frame mental images, fading snapshots, the slide always there in the background.
It was our fort, our spaceship, our racetrack, our mountain…
- Gerard, upside down on the slide, playing Thunderbirds.
- A young bird, one of Kipper's victims, buzzing with summer bugs in the cool shade underneath the slide.
My first clear memory of pain - the slide's there too. Another cinematic moment: I can hear my own screams, tearing my 5 year old hand away from the red-painted wood at the side of the slide, the world's biggest splinter jutting awkwardly from my pinkly filthy palm.
Bubbles in time, crystallised into physical memory. The simple smell of damp wood can still reel me back every time to the garden of 247 Castle Lane and the slide gently creaking and popping as it dried out after a summer rain.
Summer. It was always, always summer when we were kids. Even the rainy days were filled with summer light. Mom would sit with me in front of the old iron French doors and we'd race raindrops down the panes.
When I think of Mom it's hard to single out any one particular memory or moment. She was just always there. Always, always there.
I guess it wasn't until I hit around 8 years old that I started to really think of Mom as a separate person. Before that she was just an extension of me. Everything she did, I wanted to do. I must have seemed like a little moon in steady orbit around her.
If we were going out to play in the woods, Mom would always tell us to check back every quarter hour to show we were OK. For years I couldn't figure out how she could possibly not know where I was and what I was up to just because she couldn't see me. Her presence in my own head was that strong, I figured mine would also be in hers.
Thoughts of Mom and I'm back on the slide again - she's at the bottom, arms out wide, coaching and catching as I wiggle down the sticky wood.
I see Dad like that too. But there's a defining difference: Mom would catch me at the end of the slide and hug me to her. With Dad it was jetplane time: Whoosh! off the bottom of the slide and wheeee! high up over his head, giggling silly dizzy in the heat haze.
Where Mom was comfort, calm, beaming smiles and goodies from the kitchen - Dad was excitement, energy, boisterous knockabout lunacy. He must have been knackered half the time, getting in from tough, physically demanding jobs and the mental sweat of night school, but we would never have known - he always had the energy to scrap with us in the armchair.
Long dormant memories float up as I write. No idea how young I was, or the occasion, or even if this really happened (or if I dreamed it) - but I have this frozen pure joy image: sitting on a woolly tartan rug in the heat of the back garden - Dad in white shirt and dark trousers, grinning like a loon as he feeds watermelon to an Action Man doll. Who knows why certain images stick...?
Whenever I think of Dad, his face is always towering above me. In my mind he is still the giant of my childhood - a huge character in every way. A boisterous presence that can set rooms ringing with laughter. Even in the quieter, gentler memories, the image I have is a strongly physical one. Like sitting at his feet, gazing up at his huge cropped head, listening in silent, drooling awe as he read to us - tales of dragons, tigers and heroes. A great man. A great man…
More thoughts flooding in:
- The wigwam.
- Crooked apple trees.
- Toppity Tortoise.
- A privet hedge full of discarded “mud pies”.
- "Trespassers will be prosecuted" on the garden fence.
- Womblemix (Womblemix!).
- Orange vinyl records with "Beatle-beat" nursery rhymes.
- Racing matchbox cars down the slide.
I am haunted by that slide...
Later, the slide fades. Replaced at the centre of my memory by other, more grown up images.
The bikes, of course. Jeezus, those bikes! Barely a notch above death trap on the “fun things for the kids” scale. I’m still amazed that Mom even let us on the things. Actually, that’s kind of unfair – makes it seem like the bikes themselves were the problem. I think it’s more accurate to say that what we did on the bikes was the scary part – bombing down near vertical hills in Hob’s Moat woods, missing trees by inches with our outstretched arms.
Back then, the woods were a sea of bluebells. It was Xanadu. I don’t think we will ever know the extent of the sacrifices Mom and Dad must have made, for us to have been blessed with growing up in such a sublime kids’ paradise.
Beyond just Mom and Dad, of course, growing up a Clarke meant growing up at the centre of the huge extended family. Everything Clarke was huge. The family get-togethers were legendary - epic events in scale and sheer noise level. Christmases on Silverdale Avenue – the wrapped presents around Granny Clarke’s tree, a very real mountain to small eyes. More loot than most kids could possibly have dreamed. Gifts for everyone and sticky yellow “snowball” drinks all round. A million billion brass ornaments glinting in the firelight.
Years later, the privilege of growing up a Clarke worked in different ways. I recall the strange pride when I first realised I was the envy of other kids, simply because of the relationship I had with my parents. Parents that other kids wished were theirs. Being a Clarke means never having to be embarrassed about your family. Never.
I think it’s a trust thing. I always felt Mom & Dad trusted us and recognised our right to be individuals. I could walk into the beer garden of The Mason’s Arms, any day or night, with my Dad beside me – knowing he wouldn’t be out of place with my friends, that his natural ease and abundant charm meant he’d be accepted as an equal amongst kids many years his junior. Growing up a Clarke meant you had lots of space, but were never more than a heartbeat away from Mom & Dad whenever you needed their comfort or counsel.
Now I’m all growed up, of course, with a family of my own.
It took me a loooooong time to get here. I’m sure there were times – too many times – when they thought I might never figure out a path and a place in the World. But they had patience, always. I would never have found this life without them. I owe them both so much.
As I watch my own kids grow I try to remember always how Mom and Dad taught and shaped me. When Leona was pregnant with Charlie I remember thinking ahead to what kind of parent I would try to be. Most of all, I decided, I wanted my children to grow up both respecting me but also considering me a friend – the way I’ve always felt about my own Mom & Dad. I’ve thought about these two things a lot and tried to figure out how to achieve them.
The respect thing, I’m sure, only comes to those who give first. I think of the quiet authority Mom and Dad always had about them. The particular authority of a good parent is nothing to do with physical presence, loud voices, stern looks, strong words or raised hands.
Authority is a gift. Your children give it to you, in return for the respect you show them.
If you treat your children with respect as individuals, they in turn will respect you, trust you and believe you. When you realise that, you also realise its ok for your children to grow separately and become independent, and they can do this without growing apart from you. I’m sure that’s right. It seems to be the way things happened to me.
The friendship aspect is also a kind of gift. I wanted Mom & Dad to be my friend because I always wanted their acknowledgement and approval – but I also wanted their friendship because they were just fun to be with. Always. If I can give Charlie and Lily one tenth of the joy, one tiny fraction of the wonder, some passing glimpses of the magic my parents gave to me – people will think me a good and successful father. And my kids will be my friends. I can’t think of anything in this world I want more than that.
* * *
As I read back through this now, I’m reminded of one other key force that shaped my early life. Words. We were always surrounded by the conjuring power of words – in books, on the radio, in the particular music of Irish voices in conversation.
And there’s the slide again. Another crystal moment of frozen memory – Eamonn’s at the top of the slide as I sit in Mom’s arms, Gerard beside us in the shade of the apple tree. Mom’s reading to us from a book or magazine; her mellow voice lifting the words from the page and dancing them over the lawn. The memory sequence that starts with the slide always leads to quiet moments like this – one or other parent reading to us in summer’s shade, in the library, at the bedside.
This may be the finest gift of them all. The lasting power of the gift of words and the love of language and literature. Whenever Eamonn, Gerard, Kieron and I talk or email, we’re always swapping book tips and story fragments. The way our early lives were shaped and informed by Mom and Dad’s own insatiable appetite for written words must be, more than anything, the defining element in who we are now.
Recently, I found a copy of a children’s book I first knew as a special favourite from my earliest visits to the library. “Tell the Time with Ant & Bee”. First published in the early ‘60s, this was one of a series of books that I remember being completely absorbed by as a five year old.
Coming home from the bookshop and sitting down to read the story to 3 year old Charlie, my voice caught in my throat as I turned the first pages. I remembered every single word. Verbatim.
Every. Single. Word.
I have another book. The Coral Island – a “boy’s own” adventure story in the highest tradition. I can practically recite the entire novel.
How many times did you read these to us, Mom & Dad? How many days did you sit with us, patiently, at the kid’s table in the library, reading and re-reading the same stories – to the point that the words are branded, indelibly, on my mind? How many nights did you thrill us with tales of Martin Rattler, Long John Silver, the Famous Five?
There’s a fragment of a half-remembered poem that sticks with me too. Seems to fit here:
You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be -
I had a Mother who read to me.
That’s it, exactly. You both planted magic in our minds and I love you.
Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad.
Happy Anniversary.
=================================================================================
It's an old wooden slide that starts the trip…
Whenever I think back to my childhood, that old slide in our long back garden is always the first and strongest image to float to the top. It's the pilot of my memory, taking my wandering thoughts by the hand and leading me back through the endless carefree sunny days.
Freeze frame mental images, fading snapshots, the slide always there in the background.
It was our fort, our spaceship, our racetrack, our mountain…
- Gerard, upside down on the slide, playing Thunderbirds.
- A young bird, one of Kipper's victims, buzzing with summer bugs in the cool shade underneath the slide.
My first clear memory of pain - the slide's there too. Another cinematic moment: I can hear my own screams, tearing my 5 year old hand away from the red-painted wood at the side of the slide, the world's biggest splinter jutting awkwardly from my pinkly filthy palm.
Bubbles in time, crystallised into physical memory. The simple smell of damp wood can still reel me back every time to the garden of 247 Castle Lane and the slide gently creaking and popping as it dried out after a summer rain.
Summer. It was always, always summer when we were kids. Even the rainy days were filled with summer light. Mom would sit with me in front of the old iron French doors and we'd race raindrops down the panes.
When I think of Mom it's hard to single out any one particular memory or moment. She was just always there. Always, always there.
I guess it wasn't until I hit around 8 years old that I started to really think of Mom as a separate person. Before that she was just an extension of me. Everything she did, I wanted to do. I must have seemed like a little moon in steady orbit around her.
If we were going out to play in the woods, Mom would always tell us to check back every quarter hour to show we were OK. For years I couldn't figure out how she could possibly not know where I was and what I was up to just because she couldn't see me. Her presence in my own head was that strong, I figured mine would also be in hers.
Thoughts of Mom and I'm back on the slide again - she's at the bottom, arms out wide, coaching and catching as I wiggle down the sticky wood.
I see Dad like that too. But there's a defining difference: Mom would catch me at the end of the slide and hug me to her. With Dad it was jetplane time: Whoosh! off the bottom of the slide and wheeee! high up over his head, giggling silly dizzy in the heat haze.
Where Mom was comfort, calm, beaming smiles and goodies from the kitchen - Dad was excitement, energy, boisterous knockabout lunacy. He must have been knackered half the time, getting in from tough, physically demanding jobs and the mental sweat of night school, but we would never have known - he always had the energy to scrap with us in the armchair.
Long dormant memories float up as I write. No idea how young I was, or the occasion, or even if this really happened (or if I dreamed it) - but I have this frozen pure joy image: sitting on a woolly tartan rug in the heat of the back garden - Dad in white shirt and dark trousers, grinning like a loon as he feeds watermelon to an Action Man doll. Who knows why certain images stick...?
Whenever I think of Dad, his face is always towering above me. In my mind he is still the giant of my childhood - a huge character in every way. A boisterous presence that can set rooms ringing with laughter. Even in the quieter, gentler memories, the image I have is a strongly physical one. Like sitting at his feet, gazing up at his huge cropped head, listening in silent, drooling awe as he read to us - tales of dragons, tigers and heroes. A great man. A great man…
More thoughts flooding in:
- The wigwam.
- Crooked apple trees.
- Toppity Tortoise.
- A privet hedge full of discarded “mud pies”.
- "Trespassers will be prosecuted" on the garden fence.
- Womblemix (Womblemix!).
- Orange vinyl records with "Beatle-beat" nursery rhymes.
- Racing matchbox cars down the slide.
I am haunted by that slide...
Later, the slide fades. Replaced at the centre of my memory by other, more grown up images.
The bikes, of course. Jeezus, those bikes! Barely a notch above death trap on the “fun things for the kids” scale. I’m still amazed that Mom even let us on the things. Actually, that’s kind of unfair – makes it seem like the bikes themselves were the problem. I think it’s more accurate to say that what we did on the bikes was the scary part – bombing down near vertical hills in Hob’s Moat woods, missing trees by inches with our outstretched arms.
Back then, the woods were a sea of bluebells. It was Xanadu. I don’t think we will ever know the extent of the sacrifices Mom and Dad must have made, for us to have been blessed with growing up in such a sublime kids’ paradise.
Beyond just Mom and Dad, of course, growing up a Clarke meant growing up at the centre of the huge extended family. Everything Clarke was huge. The family get-togethers were legendary - epic events in scale and sheer noise level. Christmases on Silverdale Avenue – the wrapped presents around Granny Clarke’s tree, a very real mountain to small eyes. More loot than most kids could possibly have dreamed. Gifts for everyone and sticky yellow “snowball” drinks all round. A million billion brass ornaments glinting in the firelight.
Years later, the privilege of growing up a Clarke worked in different ways. I recall the strange pride when I first realised I was the envy of other kids, simply because of the relationship I had with my parents. Parents that other kids wished were theirs. Being a Clarke means never having to be embarrassed about your family. Never.
I think it’s a trust thing. I always felt Mom & Dad trusted us and recognised our right to be individuals. I could walk into the beer garden of The Mason’s Arms, any day or night, with my Dad beside me – knowing he wouldn’t be out of place with my friends, that his natural ease and abundant charm meant he’d be accepted as an equal amongst kids many years his junior. Growing up a Clarke meant you had lots of space, but were never more than a heartbeat away from Mom & Dad whenever you needed their comfort or counsel.
Now I’m all growed up, of course, with a family of my own.
It took me a loooooong time to get here. I’m sure there were times – too many times – when they thought I might never figure out a path and a place in the World. But they had patience, always. I would never have found this life without them. I owe them both so much.
As I watch my own kids grow I try to remember always how Mom and Dad taught and shaped me. When Leona was pregnant with Charlie I remember thinking ahead to what kind of parent I would try to be. Most of all, I decided, I wanted my children to grow up both respecting me but also considering me a friend – the way I’ve always felt about my own Mom & Dad. I’ve thought about these two things a lot and tried to figure out how to achieve them.
The respect thing, I’m sure, only comes to those who give first. I think of the quiet authority Mom and Dad always had about them. The particular authority of a good parent is nothing to do with physical presence, loud voices, stern looks, strong words or raised hands.
Authority is a gift. Your children give it to you, in return for the respect you show them.
If you treat your children with respect as individuals, they in turn will respect you, trust you and believe you. When you realise that, you also realise its ok for your children to grow separately and become independent, and they can do this without growing apart from you. I’m sure that’s right. It seems to be the way things happened to me.
The friendship aspect is also a kind of gift. I wanted Mom & Dad to be my friend because I always wanted their acknowledgement and approval – but I also wanted their friendship because they were just fun to be with. Always. If I can give Charlie and Lily one tenth of the joy, one tiny fraction of the wonder, some passing glimpses of the magic my parents gave to me – people will think me a good and successful father. And my kids will be my friends. I can’t think of anything in this world I want more than that.
* * *
As I read back through this now, I’m reminded of one other key force that shaped my early life. Words. We were always surrounded by the conjuring power of words – in books, on the radio, in the particular music of Irish voices in conversation.
And there’s the slide again. Another crystal moment of frozen memory – Eamonn’s at the top of the slide as I sit in Mom’s arms, Gerard beside us in the shade of the apple tree. Mom’s reading to us from a book or magazine; her mellow voice lifting the words from the page and dancing them over the lawn. The memory sequence that starts with the slide always leads to quiet moments like this – one or other parent reading to us in summer’s shade, in the library, at the bedside.
This may be the finest gift of them all. The lasting power of the gift of words and the love of language and literature. Whenever Eamonn, Gerard, Kieron and I talk or email, we’re always swapping book tips and story fragments. The way our early lives were shaped and informed by Mom and Dad’s own insatiable appetite for written words must be, more than anything, the defining element in who we are now.
Recently, I found a copy of a children’s book I first knew as a special favourite from my earliest visits to the library. “Tell the Time with Ant & Bee”. First published in the early ‘60s, this was one of a series of books that I remember being completely absorbed by as a five year old.
Coming home from the bookshop and sitting down to read the story to 3 year old Charlie, my voice caught in my throat as I turned the first pages. I remembered every single word. Verbatim.
Every. Single. Word.
I have another book. The Coral Island – a “boy’s own” adventure story in the highest tradition. I can practically recite the entire novel.
How many times did you read these to us, Mom & Dad? How many days did you sit with us, patiently, at the kid’s table in the library, reading and re-reading the same stories – to the point that the words are branded, indelibly, on my mind? How many nights did you thrill us with tales of Martin Rattler, Long John Silver, the Famous Five?
There’s a fragment of a half-remembered poem that sticks with me too. Seems to fit here:
You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be -
I had a Mother who read to me.
That’s it, exactly. You both planted magic in our minds and I love you.
Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad.
Happy Anniversary.
