Nostalgia. The word is a formation of a Greek compound,
consisting of nóstos, "returning home" -- a Homeric word -- and álgos, "pain" or
"ache." I suffered from it for
years, not from any pain or ache, but from a feeling of appreciation for the
past or something related to the past, often in an idealized form.
A few years back, I re-visited the small Welsh village where
I was sent as a World War II evacuee. At
the age of three, I could hardly have known of the events happening in Europe
that woud change the world forever. Like most children, I trusted my parents to
always do the right thing. My mother said I needed to leave London "to be
safe." Safety would be found in a
small South Wales town by the name of Llantrisant, and translates as The Parish
of the Three Saints. (They being
St.Illtyd, St. Gwynno and St. Dyfodwg.
Pronounciation is unavailable by this Cockney kid.)
. 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,
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
sweet shop where a penny bought a life-supply of candy were still in place.
But there were changes. It would be arrogant of me to think
that none were made. A huge recreation
center had been built in the middle of the pristine landscape of the park. A
busy rotary whirled in place of the quiet intersection by James' grocery store,
and there was a new tire factory on the outskirts of the town. These intrusive
occupants pushed my happy memories aside. I asked one long-time resident if much
had changed for him over the last 50 or 60 years.
"Nothing too much," he replied in that wonderful
Welsh lilt that I had adopted during my childhood stay. 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 to
others who lived in this village, the qualities and values that made up this
town were still there. As we talked, I realized that our lives are constantly
accommodating change. We may protest modern change and facilitation , but for
the sake of their convenience and our comforts we accept much in the "name
of progress" and the 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, to
bring home how much life has changed between my childhood and hers, indeed of
all my four children. Technology, innovation, communication, and changing
social customs have all contributed to dramatic changes in the way we live and
interact with each other.
I grumbled about my Saturdays not being my own anymore. 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 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 family or friend."
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 which
shout that it is not safe for children to be out on the streets, or, for that
matter, at home alone, that they cannot be left in cars or strollers outside a
store, that leaving children with others
invites risk, and that our young offspring are marketable items, or socially
manipulative objects, or future earners.
I knew that we were at a juncture where I could easily
frighten my daughter, create a block of cynicism in her, or produce a hundred
other negative tones in her young mind. We tread a fine line while keeping keeping our children
informed of the world around them, yet 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 my children's were a world apart. I
also realized that this difference, this awkward dissimilarity of our
childhoods, would not, need not stand in the way of giving them that sense of
adventure, inquisitiveness, and wonder that I enjoyed in that far away Welsh
village.
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, the nature of extremes, or the brutality of today's
terrorism. It is this instantaneousness that gives little time to make an
honest evaluation of events and consequences in the world.
Is our task now, not so much to make these things invisible, but to educate our children
how to combat them, overcome them, or heal them? My involvement in my
children's growth and progress is a hundred times more than my own parents'
input in my childhood. 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 unclogged streets, respect for authority, and
of TV-free living 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 that caring for my children's safety I cannot
let them wander too far from home without some protection from the world. But I
can also tell them there is much to appreciate and value. They may have to be
driven 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, taking great
advantage of the moments together.
Lacking a safe subway system today, 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 watched
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 early 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 country. They
are all out on their own now; half of them married with children. 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.
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, and for each other, will serve them well.
© Roy
H. Barnacle 2011
