Guest Blog - The Memory Man by Rod Smith

In times of crisis, nostalgia becomes a lifeline to us. Our memories become more vivid and transport us to happier times. They help us to take stock of what’s important, they give us hope. This week’s guest blog comes from children’s author Rod Smith, who takes us on a journey through his memories:

Not all heroes wear capes.

I picture myself on a trip I made to Germany before this lockdown began.

I am in Stuggart, about to board a high-speed ICE train to Frankfurt. The train has forty-seven carriages. Forty seven! It takes me over five minutes to walk the length of the platform to examine it. I have a four seater space to myself in carriage 38. This is perfect for the two hour journey that is ahead.

I have always loved trains. My father was a train driver with CIE. We lived right beside the railway station, so he never had to worry about being late for work. All he had to do was to go out the back door of our house, stroll down the back garden, nip through the fence, and walk down the grassy bank to the train station.

The diesel engines of the trains were left on at night to ensure that the trains started the next morning. I would fall asleep to their gentle hum. During the day when trains passed by, the house would shake and the windows would rattle.  My family and I were so accustomed to this, we would reply ‘what noise?’ when visitors commented on the disturbance outside.

My father used to bring me with him in the driver’s cabin when I was young. This was in the days before the health and safety checks. I can still remember pulling the cord to blow the whistle, and occasionally sticking my head out of the window to feel the breeze through my hair. It was exhilarating!

My father died at a young age. One night, soon after his passing I couldn’t sleep. As usual, there was a train outside with its engine running. I crept out of the house and went down to the tracks. I recognised the serial number on the driver’s cabin. It was the one I had been in with my father. It sat there like an obedient pet waiting for its master to return…

I spent that summer with my cousins in Leitrim. It was a wonderful time - fantastic weather, lots of fields to run in, great people, and lots and lots of books to read. Every morning, my Aunt D would walk into my bedroom and laugh when she caught me reading.

‘Another book! Good man yourself! Do you ever sleep?’

‘I don’t want to sleep – I want to read!’

‘Well you go right ahead! That’s what the holidays are for!’

I loved Aunt D. She reminded me of the singer Cher. She had long dark hair and always dressed with style. One day there was a festival in the nearby town of Ballinamore and there was a fancy dress competition.

‘We’ll send you as a pop star’, D suggested.

D sacrificed her best pair of long boots and glued tinfoil to them. She took some of her hairspray and permed my hair.  Then she took one of her best white blouses, pasted some stars onto it and cut it so that it would fit me. She drew chest hair on me with a dark eyebrow pencil. Finally she helped me to make a banner proclaiming ‘Gary Glitter comes to Ballinamore!’ (We didn’t know the truth about him then.)

I came sixth and won the princely sum of one pound! The winners of the competition were two children who were dressed up as cardboard boxes. D was furious.

‘Cardboard boxes! Cardboard boxes! How can cardboard boxes beat Gary Glitter?’

We found out later that one of their parents was on the judging panel.  Never underestimate a cardboard box! The boots did not go to waste. D wore them for some weeks afterwards until the foil eventually peeled away.

Today, Aunt D is not aware of her surroundings. She has Alzheimer’s. 

 

Back on the ICE train from Stuttgart to Frankfurt, we are now travelling at 170 kilometres an hour and yet the carriage is silent and sways ever so gently on the rails.  I wonder what would my father say if he was on this train?  I cannot recollect the sound of his voice. Too many years have passed. My memory has failed me.

I went to visit Aunt D recently. She did not recognise me and sat silently looking out of the window. Her memories have been stolen from her. I am now her memory man. I shall always remember how she saved the life of this little boy. My hero.

It is true that not all heroes wear capes. Mine wore silver boots.  

Stay safe everyone.

 Rod Smith is a published author of eleven books for children with Poolbeg Press.