I Remember.



I remember writing laboriously with pen nibs and ink, their pattern of blotches decorating my spidery drawl and blue blotting paper limiting the damage. I remember evenings in the sitting room gathered around the piano before TVs usurped the family hearth, my mother playing as we tried to sing along.
I remember watching as my father guided their waltzing steps round the dance floor amidst a ruffle of organza petticoats, his getting up before us all to light the coal fire, and carving beautiful furniture from wooden egg boxes.
I remember helping my mother pluck chickens and shell peas, her superb baking, and how she made our clothes on the little Singer sewing machine. Life was simpler then still in touch with its roots.
Now food comes ready made in packages, entertainment is available at the touch of a button, and central heating means I can snuggle in bed while the house warms, but while making life easier we seem to have lost something.
The easy neighborhood camaraderie of post war London has evaporated leaving a nation of strangers. In a time when everyone was thankful to have a roof over their heads and food on the table all were in the same boat. Even the remaining upper-classes seemed to have a respect for the laboring class who had fought at their side in the war, divisions closed by a common enemy.
Now, rich or poor, everyone competes on the rungs of their various ladders and I would look in vain for a man who can grow vegetables, make furniture, fix our shoes, wall paper the house and fight for us if needed, or a woman who cooks and cleans, makes jam and pickles, clothes and books, who can make a meal from nothing and made our house a home, folks solid in their foundations standing united no matter what fate brings against them. I fear in loosing our roots we have lost much of our strength also.

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