Mum’s Christmas Eve Candle

Clarity in the confusion/light in the darkness

It’s that time of year again. Wishing you all peace for the coming new year, Jackdaw followers. Wherever you are in the world, I hope these words find you well.

Pain Is Love

I woke this morning to the news that Debbie Reynolds had died, just one day after Carrie Fisher. The strain must have been just too much for the aged star. “She’s now with Carrie and we’re all heartbroken,” said her son, Todd Fisher. “She said, ‘I want to be with Carrie’, and then she was gone.”

Debbie wanting to be with her daughter is a nice thought, but what a time their family must be going through. On hearing the news, the lyrics of Ja Rule came to mind:

If pain is truly love,

for my family I die.

R.I.P both mother&daughter.

No More. On The Death Of My Father.

This poem appeared in my book, Heading North. Although in it I don’t explicitly say so, ‘No More’ was written after the death of my father, which was thirteen years ago today.

No More

No more. No more bleaching white
the nicotine stained flesh
of your fingers,
picking at the sterile 
veneer of cordiality 
amidst the well-thumbed
scattered deserts
from which ruins strive to rise.

No more counting down the markers,
elbows jostling territorially,
courting, sequential swans
rising in toasts, triumphant.
Your slow, inexorable withdrawal 
left behind a vacuum,
the equilibrium of a table
out of kilter.

No longer the trumpeted parading 
of the heir apparent,
the tedious repetition 
of vine and tongue,
reproduced seasoned lines 
framing the true inheritance 
and held to likeness.
Casual comparity no more. No more.



©Andrew James Murray

To Create, And Grieve, And Thank

In the midst of their grief at losing our family dog, Rydal, my kids have been demonstrating just how therapeutic doing something creative can be. Perhaps, on reflection, my previous post served the same function for me?

My eight year old daughter, Millie, made this colourful tribute:

And, with her brother, James, set up this little shrine beside her bed, using Rydal’s dog chews:

They have come up with the idea of releasing balloons, carrying away their thanks and goodbyes, as they put their dog’s ashes in the garden. And so, this we will do, and then they will move on, carrying with them, wherever life takes them, their memories and laughter and tears.

The night after Rydal died, Millie said the following prayer, which was both sad and a little mature:

“Dear Rydal, I didn’t want to let you go, but the next time I see you will be when I’m at the Rainbow Bridge. I’m sorry if my memories fade.”

We won’t allow that to happen. We will document, and remember, and share. Bringing out into the light that which we cherish within.

City Jackdaw has been a bit heavy of late, I know, so I’ll post something a bit lighter next time, I promise. But to all of you fantastic people out there, who shared Rydal’s story, and took time out to leave such lovely and encouraging messages for my family, I am profoundly grateful.

There has been a lot of positivity coming our way, which has helped enormously. We have a fantastic community here, on the often maligned social media sites of WordPress and Facebook, which makes the risk of reaching out all worthwhile. For what we give out, we get back ten-fold.

Thank you.

First World War Centenary Series #3: The Last Post

Things are starting to feel a bit heavy on Jackdaw. I was going to do a post today about when I went to Greece to visit the grave of my great-grandfather, buried in Thessaloniki. But I think I will save that for another time. This short post here will be the last of my First World War themed posts. Then we move on.

Trying to get a grasp on the numbers, the magnitude, in relation to the war is impossible. When we talk about the deaths, about the millions of deaths, they become just that. Numbers. Faceless, anonymous, horrifying, numbers. So I resorted to address the legacy of the conflict through my own family connections. These more personal links help to bring home the devastating effects of that conflict. Both of my grandmothers grew up without having their fathers in their lives because of that war. Every Remembrance Sunday I never forget that.

On the evening of the 4th of August, 1914, as the clock ticked ever closer to the deadline time of 11.00pm, the whole country waited to hear if Germany had responded to Britain’s ultimatum. In two different homes in Manchester, each just a short walk from each other, both Timothy O’Sullivan and Albert Cartwright would also have been waiting with their respective wives and young families. Or perhaps they had both gone to gather outside Manchester Town Hall to hear the news, before returning home to talk war around the hearth. What would those houses have been filled with? Feelings of anxiety, uncertainty? Perhaps a growing excitement? Maybe even an idea that war could somehow still be averted? Or were both families reconciled to the fact that everything had irrevocably changed?

Neither family could have known that, within four years Timothy would be dead, within five Albert. Forty nine years down the line from that night, these two families would become connected when Timothy’s grandson (my Dad) would marry Albert’s granddaughter (my mum). At the wedding, both the mother of the groom and the mother of the bride would have that sense of loss in common.

This is my blood-story that brings home the tragedy of the period to me. It is only through stories like this that we can fully appreciate how children, families, were cheated. As a father myself, who was lucky enough to grow up with my father in my life, that is how it would feel to me. Cheated. How different things could have been if only these people had been born in a different period of history. But this is now part of my family history. Part of my story too.

Along with the family perspective, another way we can get to understand the impact of the war is through the local connection. There are the names on local memorials, stories in local archives and on the lips of the people that we meet. For months now our local newspaper has been printing stories that include things that I can relate to. The names of streets that the soldiers came from, the same streets that I have grown up on. The name of schools and churches that those young men attended, institutions that are still part of my community.

One local story that stayed with me was one that I read about a few years ago. It was a story that took place not on a battlefield, not in the theatre of war, but here on the streets of my town, Middleton.

It was a written account of a local who remembers witnessing one day, up in the Cheapside area of the town, the local postman sat sobbing on a kerb by the roadside. A woman who lived nearby was sat with her arm around his shoulders, silently consoling him. This postman spent everyday delivering telegrams to fearful households, breaking the news that a loved one had been lost.

I was a postman for eleven years. I was accustomed to people waiting expectantly for the post, some not leaving home until I had arrived. For him it must have been so different. No-one wanting him to call. Every dreading household watching out to see which house in the street he was going to next. In the end it must have been too much for him-the constant, devastated reactions of people that he knew. Bringing bad tidings about people that he knew.

The family stories, the local stories. It is these that bring home to me what the consequences of the war was. The unparalleled, worldwide devastation and loss, seen here in microcosm.

Tomorrow, something lighter. I promise.

My Community Mourns

As the world reacted with outrage at the news footage of the two men who butchered that 25 year old soldier to death in broad daylight on the streets of  London on Wednesday, the horror felt nationally turned to shock locally when we learnt that the soldier was from this town, indeed this very estate, on which we live.

Once Drummer Lee Rigby’s name was released, the realisation spread like wildfire.

Our town was immediately catapulted into the centre of the media eye as various news crews descended upon it. Satellite news vans currently line the street where my wife’s parents live. The playschool which my son attends has been closed today as the community centre that hosts it is acting as the focal point for the local residents to come together in mutual support and solace. At the sports centre a book of condolence has been opened for people to sign and leave sympathetic messages. British and English flags are beginning to be displayed from windows and car aerials.

I didn’t know Lee personally, but I know people who did. This is a typical neighbourhood where everyone is just one place away from knowing everyone else.

Nationally there has been reports of sporadic attacks on mosques, with demonstrations being mooted for the coming days.

But here in Lee’s hometown the first response was to gather together, offering prayers and lighting candles for Lee and in support of his family. His sister attended the vigil, and we were told that his family appreciated the community coming together on behalf of them and their son.

Emotions are understandably high at the moment, but the ideal that we strive to reach for must surely be one of peace. Peace starts with the individual. And the individual starts with inner peace.

In this town, this multicultural town, that has been rocked by this senseless, brutal murder, it is a thought we need to cling to as the initial shock wears off and anger gathers momentum.

I will leave you with two quotes from two individuals who were both proponents of the path of peace, but neither of them passively so.

“An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” – Gandhi

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” – Martin Luther King

These are sentiments that we should echo in what will be some difficult times ahead.

Our focus should be on Lee, his family, each other.