A few years back, I re-visited the small Welsh village where I was sent as a World War II evacuee. My memories of that small community were of a happy time, far away from the London Blitz. The house of Mrs. Adams, with whom I was billeted was still there, as was the park with its trim gardens and smooth, lawned, bowling green, the small chapel still stood although it had long ago lost its congregation. The winding road to the school at the top of the hill, and the small sweet shop, where a penny bought a life supply of candy were still in place.
But there were changes. A huge recreation center had been built in the middle of the pristine landscape of the park. A new rotary or roundabout was now in place of the quiet intersection by James' grocery store and there was now a new tire factory on the outskirts of the town. These pushed my happy memories aside, becoming intrusions to me.
I asked one long time resident if much had changed for him over the last 50 or 60 years. "Nothing too much," he replied. He had slowly accepted the changes, adjusted to them and fitted them neatly into his daily routines. We talked about the changes. He said that to him and others who lived in this village, the qualities and values that made up this town were still there in what remained of what it was. As we talked, I realized that our lives are constantly accommodating change. We may protest modern change and facility, but for the sake of their convenience in our lives, we accept much in the "name of progress" and advancement of what we term "civilization."
It took a conversation between me and one of my daughters, then 10 years old, as I drove her to yet another soccer match on a Saturday. I grumbled about my Saturdays not being my own any more. But the conversation brought home how much life has changed between my childhood and hers, indeed all of my four children. It would not be hard to accept. Technology, innovation, communication and changing social customs have all contributed to dramatic changes in the way we live and interact with each other. So Sarah asked: "Daddy, what did you do on a Saturday when you were a little boy?" It seemed as though my answer had been waiting with eager expectancy for that question for years. It leapt from my lips with an eloquence and eagerness that surprised us both.
"Ah yes," I replied. "My Saturdays. I would get my map of the London Home Counties and pore over it for an hour. Then, I would pick some interesting sounding name, circle it, and map out the route. Out would come my bicycle and I would set off on my planned journey. Sometimes the trip was more than a hundred miles. Sometimes it would be to visit someone."
Sarah thought for a moment.
"Your Mom let you go?" She said with a slight note of incredulity in her voice.
"Yes, of course."
"Wasn't she afraid?" exclaimed my daughter.
"Of what?" I answered. "There was no traffic. The streets were safe. The towns and villages that I passed through always had a small cafe where I could buy something to eat or drink."
"But what about, you know, those guys?"
Yes, I knew. I knew she was referring to the headlines that shouted that it was not safe for children to be out on the streets alone; that they could not be left in cars, or strollers outside the store, that leaving with children with others invited risk and that our young offspring were marketable items, or socially manipulative objects or future earners. I knew that I was at a juncture where I could easily frighten my daughter, or create a block of cynicism in her, or a hundred other negative tones in a young mind.
We tread a fine line between keeping our children informed of the world around them and keeping them innocent and blameless of the world's failings and frailties. I realized with a mixture of melancholy and hope, that the climates of my childhood and theirs were a world apart. I also realized that this difference, this dissimilarity of our childhoods, would not, could not stand in the way of giving them that sense of adventure, inquisitiveness and wonder that I enjoyed in that far away Welsh village.
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| Above: A view of the Ely Valley as seen from Llantrisant. |
As an evacuee, I was shielded and protected from the ravages and horrors of Hitler's terror. What I knew about those dark days, I read years afterwards. No one in that village made it a point to tell me what I was protected from. I just was and didn't have to know from what. Today's children cannot avoid instantly learning about the weakness of their president, of the injustices in our courts, of the revulsion of demented minds, nature of extremes or the brutality of today's terrorism. It is this instantaneousness that gives them little time to make an honest evaluation of events and consequences in the world.
Is our task now, perhaps, not so much to make these things invisible to them, but to educate them how to combat them, overcome them, or heal them? Ideas, notions and view towards solutions, perhaps, do not need either time or space to be healed.
My involvement in my children's growth and progress is a hundred times more than my own parents. My father left me nothing but the world to make my way in. It was a world of safe streets, kind and decent people, of traffic-free streets, respect for authority, and of TV-free livings rooms. Perhaps my parents did not need to spend a great deal of time looking for negative aspects in my life or their own. The qualities they instilled would serve me well in a world that was largely congruous and amicable.
Today, I know I cannot let my children wander too far from home without some protection from the world and to care for their safety. But I can tell them there is much to appreciate and value. They may have to be taken to their soccer matches in lieu of walking or cycling as I did, but those moments traveling in the car are filled with open, honest and fun-filled conversations. We fill our journey with our voices in song and the moments together are taken great advantage of.
Lacking a safe subway system, I may have to take my son into town to see the sights of the city, where I once bicycled or walked, but it affords me an opportunity to share the journey with him and to contribute my experiences to the moments we share. Perhaps, just perhaps, I had to watch my children more than my own parents ever did, but there is a meshing of our minds that was never there when I set out on my own explorations.
I miss those days of yore, that small village in Wales, and I miss my children, whether they are in the next town, state or across the Atlantic. They are all out on their own now; half of them married with grandchildren and the other half far away in London and St.Louis. But when they were part of my milieu, my surroundings, they took up a lot of my time, as I took up a lot of that small Welsh village's time, time that I sometimes felt should have been sacrosanct. But in the larger picture, I realize that today, we need to be with our children, guiding, governing and guarding them in preparation for their eventual emergence as adults. Adjusting our love and care for children to today's world, should be an affirmative journey, not one of fear, resentment or inconvenience. I am thankful that my children do not feel restricted in their world of watchfulness and shielding. I don't know what the world will be like when my children care for their own, but I do know that the values of love, respect, courage and appreciation for all that is good and honest will serve them well.
Copyright Roy H. Barnacle 2011
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