So, 2020 has arrived in the guise of a beautiful morning. I’m going to a football match this afternoon, then tonight there’s a new Doctor and a new Dracula. Not a bad start for any geeky, gothic, football fans out there. And I reckon there’ll be pizza.
Here the sun has set on 2019, darkness has fallen on the previous decade.
I don’t have any diaries on hand to consult, and have not the time now to go through all of my City Jackdaw posts and FB status’, but, from the top of my head:
On starting and finishing the decade-
my wife and I were foster carers and now we host students; we lost our dog Rydal but gained our dog Bryn; we lost some good friends but gained some new friends; our son James was born and my mum was diagnosed with Alzheimers; ups and downs; highs and lows; but on the whole a good ten years.
I’m not sure why we chop our lives up into segments and chapters, but we do.
Wishing you all a great new decade. Pace yourselves.
See you all in 2020.
I’ve mentioned this man before on City Jackdaw, usually around Remembrance Sunday, but I feel that I should mention him again as today is the centenary of his death.
He is my Great Grandfather Albert Cartwright, of the Lancashire Fusiliers.
This is him with his wife, Ada. Maybe they had the photograph taken on his enlistment in 1914 because, you know, just in case . . .
He died at home, on this day in 1919, after being gassed during the second battle of the Marne in 1918. He was just forty. He lies in an unmarked grave at Phillips Park Cemetery, not far from Manchester City’s Etihad stadium.
That battle marked the beginning of the end for Germany. He almost made it safely to the end of the war.
He almost made it to 1920.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been injured. This photo, of course in black and white, shows Albert wearing his ‘hospital blues’, uniform they were given while recovering in hospitals back in England.
His war record states that he died on New Year’s Eve, though his death certificate says it was the 30th.
Perhaps it was either side of that midnight hour, when twenty four hours later the city would be ringing in the New Year, while his newly widowed wife Ada and his children, my Grandmother Lilian among them, would be grieving their loss.
It was a loss that reverberated down the years with my Gran.
And so, even further down the line, I remember him now, and always ❤️
The decade is fading fast. Let her go, let her go.
* Title of this post is from The Fading by Joan Shelley
Bryn has taken a shine to sleeping beneath our Christmas tree.
Current smashed bauble count is eight.
That time when the kids were trying to get enough postage to send me to the North Pole.
Over here in the UK it’s Boxing Day, a day that is right at the forefront of the No-Man’s Land that lies between Christmas and New Year.
My Boxing Day plans have been ruined by the weather, which is another British certainty.
There are many people who go walking on this day (an activity that is also in the lap of the Gods), but I’d planned to go to watch my local non-league football team play but, alas, a waterlogged pitch has scuppered that.
Then I had a close call when my wife suggested shopping-but while she and my daughter brave the hustle and bustle I’ve managed to retreat into Costa with a book about Orkney. I’m surely due another visit. To Orkney, that is, not Costa.
Anyway, I hope you guys all had a good Christmas, and if not maybe we can navigate this treacherous No-Man’s Land together on the way to 2020.
Catch you soon. It’s raining in Orkney too.