How often have you wished for one last conversation with your mom, dad or grandparents, even if they’ve been gone for many years? Or the chance to hear one of their old stories that you didn’t pay enough attention to because you’d heard it so many times you never really listened?
My father passed away at the age of 92 in 2009 and I think of him often. But although we can’t have a conversation, he did leave a way that he can talk to me.
Dad was born in the East End of London in 1916, in the middle of World War I. Like the majority of children in those times, he left school at 14. I don’t think the fact that he wasn’t highly educated really mattered to him, because in later years, he became a successful business owner, began a whole new career at 75 and followed the news avidly in newspapers, radio and television.
Dad thought of the British countryside the way we think of exotic locations like Maui or Borah Borah. It was another world with a natural beauty that he didn’t get to experience on a daily basis. But in 1935, when he was 19, he and a couple of friends left the city for some hikes in the countryside they called rambles. I know this because Dad detailed all their adventures in a hand-written journal he called Our Country Log Book.
For their first trip, the lads rode 19 miles by steam train from London Bridge station to Box Hill, Surrey. Even 83 years ago, the London sprawl was creating suburbs, so they were disappointed to find it was not totally the rural delight for which they had hoped.
“We do not want glorious scenes, nor splendour (sic), nor suburbs or crowds,” Dad writes. “All we require is to find the glorious spirit of real rural country life; the spirit of the villages; the charm of farmsteads and churches; of ancient customs and to cut ourselves away from civilisation (sic) and revert back hundreds of years ago. To live amongst this is by means of camping. Only then can we learn the spirit of the English countryside. To hike with our packs on our backs, sleep in tents or barns and prepare our own food. Then and only then, can we learn to find the spirit of the English countryside – the England we love best.”
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A few weeks later, my dad and his friends Alfie and Elkin were off again, this time feeling better prepared. Along with their back packs, they carried a paraffin stove, billy cans, water bottles and a bucket.
“How futile it was to have brought food!” Dad wrote. “Surely it was possible to have bought it in the country and not carry it about the whole time? It was certainly foolish of us not to have foreseen this position. However, it was no use grumbling, so we made the best of it.”
Turns out, lighting the portable stove wasn’t as simple as they thought.
“Paraffin! Perhaps there is insufficient! Or too much! How’s the burner? What’s wrong with the pump? What’s right with it! A match, quick [expletive] you! Where is a match? “Oh sorry, we’ve already used the last box.” There must be something wrong with the burner? Shall we open it? Certainly! Hmm, nothing wrong as far as we could see.”
Three and a half hours later, the paraffin was in their eyes, on their hands and faces, but still not supporting a flame.
Tired and hungry, the young adventurers began searching for a barn in which to spend the night. They found this surprisingly difficult.
Dad continues: “The field was quite accessible and it held about 10 cows. We eagerly walked toward it. How beautiful the scene was with the cows grazing. We were already half way across and were about 10 yards from the herd. Where were their udders? Why were they coming toward us? They were five yards from us. Surely they were not … God! They were bulls! Within two seconds, we were rushing toward the fence. The bulls quickened their pace. The fence! Would it be difficult to get over? Thank God the fence was convenient to cross.”
Continuing on their way, they discovered that carrying heavy equipment wasn’t their only mistake.
“How foolish we were to think we can appreciate the countryside carrying heavy loads on our backs, as well as being attired in long trousers,” he said. “Our future rambles must be arranged in a sensible manner, by wearing suitable hiking apparel as well as light rucksacks.”
By June 1936, the lads were on the road again, this time using a small cart which Dad referred to as “the truck.”
“And so, after many weeks, the truck was finished. But how could we have anticipated the difficulty afterwards found in constructing the truck!” he writes. “The wheels were the most important part of the lot. For three weeks, we searched all over London, in junk shops, pram shops and a host of others. Of course, these could have been purchased by the usual methods, but that would cost as much as four pounds sterling per piece. However, we were fortunate to procure them at the amazingly cheap price of eight shillings, fully tyred (sic) and ready for use.”
If every journey starts with the first step, then theirs was through the crowded streets of central London, dragging the cart behind them.
“As we entered the city, people stared at us and giggled. Slowly, we guided the truck through the narrow streets, people still staring and smiling,” said Dad. “One policeman asked us if it was a boy or a girl! We replied that it was King Kong’s baby. And so, after two hours’ journey, we finally arrived at Waterloo Station en route for Winchester, in Hampshire, where we intended to commence our ramblings.”
At the station, the luggage clerk scratched his head and asked if it was a pram or a truck.
“What impertinence that man had!” snapped Dad through his immaculate hand writing. He noted it had taken two of them eight weeks to construct the vehicle and it certainly wasn’t a pram.
“He added that if it were a pram, it would be conveyed at a cheaper rate than a truck, to which we immediately replied that it was a pram and purchased a ticket for it,” he said.
What I initially loved about my Dad’s log book was that it afforded a glimpse into a bygone era that these days I can only see in Naperville via PBS. But it’s much more than that. I can see more of myself in him than I ever realized when he was alive. I see him as a writer with a dry sense of humor and a born storyteller. During my lifetime, I’ve kept diaries, written a blog and told thousands of stories about myself and others.
So, this Father’s Day I’d like to thank my Dad, Coleman Conway, for his gifts, memories and smiles and let him know that I’m keeping the family tradition going.
