Tag Archives: memorial

Bagatelle

23 Dec

As little a boy I used to play the board game known as Bagatelle in my great uncle Jan’s huge house in Haarlem. All the time the adults would argue about noblesse oblige, the Second World War and prisoner of war camps – in Dutch.

Bagatelle – the antidote to tedious nostalgia.

The thrill when the marble actually lands in a scoring hole, instead of tinkling down the pins to oblivion!

Reminds me of W.H. Auden’s aphorism:

‘Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.’

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Looks like a tombstone too.

Earlier this year, I was asked to design a memorial. The Widow had not been able to find a suitable artisan to honour her husband’s memory.

She described her husband to me as an adventurer, a cyclist and a gentleman and she wanted the memorial carved in wood.

He seemed to have the qualities of my father, David Littlewood.

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Cyclist, gentleman and Adventurer.

The regulations governing the installation of memorial headstones in graveyards are strict in South Yorkshire. 

Wood is not good, unless one plants a living tree.

I declined the commission, but in memory of my father’s generous spirit, I gave her the drawing to use as she saw fit.

Eventually she told me she had found a talented young mason who was able to carve it for her in stone and add his own texture to the motif.

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What, I hear you ask, is the link between an ancient board game for one bored boy and Death?

Life of course, and I celebrate it!

The word Bagatelle derives from the Italian word ‘bagatella’ coined in the 1630s for a trifle, a thing of no importance – a knick-knack, a bauble, or a trinket.

David met his second wife, Mollie, in the Club Bagatelle a famous nightclub in Lagos, Nigeria.

David and Molly - Polly and Alan wedding

Mr and Mrs Littlewood produced three children together; Anna (veterinary surgeon), Nathan (geologist) and Simon (carpenter).

I met them in ’69 when I was still living in Matlock in the house my dad bought when he married my mother, David’s first wife.

Although I was young, it was kind of obvious to me that my Dad was besotted with Mollie and very happy.

This made me happy, and that is no trifling thing.

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Elise, by the artist Diana Storey, makes me happy. She is a Bagatelle. You can see her galloping around a small exhibition of wood and mosaic art called Birdsong in Winter (extended by Yorkshire Artspace until January 18th, 2020) as a paean to trifles thrown in the face of Darkness.

At night a terrifying Night Mare, carrying the innocent away from Darkness into The Light. By day a sweet carousel pony.

In the mid 1950’s young David took his City and Guilds 1st Class in carpentry and joinery and sailed from Liverpool to Nigeria to help her people regain Independence from British Rule. He brought practical building skills.

His adventure led to my birth in Kano, and more siblings than I can shake a stick at, a generous step mum and the happiest of memories.

That is pretty First Class in my book.

 “Proper job lad.”

For the women folk x

HL 24.12.2019

 

Holly

9 Dec

Do our children bear our sins? According to the Old Testament, they do. The sins of the fathers need to be considered;

(Exodus 20:5)–“You shall not worship them or serve them (false idols, graven images, the wrong team); for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, on the third and the fourth generations of those who hate Me….”

Whilst I might agree with the notion of collective inheritance and responsibility in a broad scientific or sociological sense – for example, in respect of our responsibility for global warming and environmental degradation, I am constantly amazed by the damage done to children. In the main by well meaning parents gifting them a fine hang-up by ‘taking things out of their hands’.

I met an interesting man, called Ben this week and Ezekiel was watching over his shoulder.


Initially he had  come to my studio with his wife to commission me to make a plaque in the form of a wooden leaf to be hung in the tree planted to commemorate his parents. A sixth sense in me detected devilment in his wife. My favourite spice as you know.

I suggested he came to my studio one evening and make the piece himself. Not very good business sense as I charge more for commissions than for a tutorial.

Ben said “I’m really not practical, it was my father who was”. This piqued my mind.

“Bollocks!” I said unprofessionally.

My guest looked a little nervous, his wife, Petra, grinned wickedly and encouraged him to take me up on the offer.

So one evening I gave him a nice thick slice of 200 year old Holly to play with.

After a bit of ‘humming and hahing’ he agreed to draw something free-hand on the slab. A nice, spiky holly leaf.


He cut it out competently and safely on my band saw – never having used such a machine, sanded it on the bobbin sander (ditto) and would have been happy to take it to the laser artist  I recommended to have an inscription burnt onto it.

I said “Want to have a go at pyrography? Try it out on some scrap plywood”. He did and was brave enough to take his holly leaf and burn the family aphorism on the back. At this point he seemed to relax.

We had drunk several cups of tea by this time and been chatting freely, so he was, by now, open to the idea of finishing the memorial himself. He had a good idea for placing the names and dates on the front around the central rib of the leaf, and happily got on with it. But, after a few minutes he exclaimed:

“Oh no!I have spelled my dad’s name ‘Artur ‘ instead of ‘Arthur’!”

“That is interesting,” I said,  “he is looking over your shoulder from the grave even now”.

I was able to correct the error by making a few small cuts using a little palm chisel. The ‘u’ disapeared and the ‘h’ was restored.

“No one, but us, will know” I said.

Well he went on to finish the piece on his own and was happy with his craftsmanship. He also diddled the laser artist out of a commission.

More significantly, he was able to step out from the shadow of a beloved, but larger than life father figure who I suspect was a ‘Let me do that’ kind of guy.

I’m not. One cannot learn without the opportunity to balls it all up. Error and correction maketh the maker in my view. I bet God (if you believe in him) made a few shit universes before he reached perfection. Sacrificing his son in this one was monumentally stupid given that the chap was a decent carpenter. What a waste!

The H that is in Arthur in Holly and in Henry’s gift was restored.

To quote T H White’s ‘The Once and Future King’;

“The bravest people are the ones who don’t mind looking like cowards.”
― T.H. WhiteThe Once and Future King

Holly is the Winter King:

“The holly and the ivy,

When they are both full grown

Of all the trees that are in the wood

The holly bears the crown”

Sing it out! It’s a great carol.

And so, dear reader, the sin of this father, that of pride – stops with me. I atone through recognition and listening to the hurt in others and by trying to be more woodenhenk and less Ezekiel.

Merry Christmas and may Henry’s gift find you too.

X

H

In Memoriam

27 Mar

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I will always be grateful for the Rangers who constructed this lovely memorial bench for my half sister Anna who passed away nearly five years ago. Anna’s very good friend, Helen and I got our heads together at her funeral to try to think of a way to commemorate this wonderfully complex, infuriating and brilliant young woman.

Anna was born, Abigail – one of my favourite names – which became for her a heavy burden literally ‘A-Big-Girl’ – a bullying taunt which affected her relationship with food her whole adult life. She changed her name by deed poll to Anna Beth Iona Wilde, thus retaining the ABI in her initials. Only 35 when she passed away – a brilliant and much loved veterinary surgeon she had saved many pets, farm animals and owners’ heartache through diligent application of her skill and empathy. She was forever rescuing ancient moggies who were duly resurrected, Lazarus-like to become (in my words) Frankencat. I really loved Anna she always reminded me a bit of Dame Margaret Rutherford – an eccentric and slightly dotty Duchess.

I’m thinking of her on the day I leave my job as a Ranger for Sheffield City council, a job which has sustained me by employing my love of teaching, my fascination with natural history and passionate belief in the importance of connecting people with and protecting the environment. What would she say at my decision to take redundancy and move on?

I think she’d approve. As Grandmother Annie Wilde (the Irish inspiration for Anna’s name) said to my dad when he began his apprenticeship as a carpenter at the Co-op in Huddersfiled:

“Well son, if it’s good enough for the Son of God, it’s good enough for you”

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What I particularly like about Anna’s Seat in Fingle Glen, Devon is that the Rangers went to the trouble of building a stone apron in front of the simple oak seat to make it easy to maintain and to define it. A ‘proper job’ as we Yorkshire Rangers would say.

If you are ever down Drewsteignton way in darkest Devon, pop in to the Fingle Bridge Pub, have a pint and then walk up stream on the right hand bank for a quarter of a mile and find the peaceful spot where Anna is fondly remembered.