Time to finish the story of my life up to the early years of the current century with one last chapter.
Since 1968 when I first heard Simon and Garfunkel sing “Old Friends” off their then new “Bookends” LP I’ve more than occasionally thought about the line where they sing:
“How terribly strange to be seventy”
And I’d worry. About the great age of them in that song. Those imaginary old men huddled in their overcoats, long past their usefulness, well into their twilights. And I’d worry that’s how it would be for me. But now, now I’m seventy myself, it turns out I needn’t have worried at all. Because it doesn’t feel strange or terrible. Different yes. But I’m feeling seventy’s brought with it more a sense of release, permission, encouragement, change and surprise than it has any of that long expected wintery desolation. What’s more, and this is the particular surprise, becoming seventy has already begun my afterwards. My what happens next.
Therefore and because of what I wrote about being more Quaker last time, that I’d “Stay open to the promptings of love, truth, beauty and enthusiasm in my heart, and trust them” I’m trusting an instinctive prompting to end the book right here. The memoir, which I’ve loved doing, having turned out to be about writing my way through the months leading up to becoming seventy, rather than exhaustively continuing its writing into more recent years now I have. The stories of the first fifty feel objective enough for a memoir. The following twenty less so, and in some cases still too raw or just too present day to have included in any detail.
So briefly then, and to finish, here’s just a short glance at the 21st century so far.
Since we were last in the story a new century had got going and close to the beginning of it I’m on an aeroplane going to America. I’ve never been there before and am beyond words excited to finally be doing such a thing. It’s work too. I’m flying to the West Coast to help organise a tour of U.S. social enterprises due to happen the next spring. I’m following the lit-up flight path diagram on the back of the seat in front of me, waiting for it to move on from just inside the Arctic Circle where it seems to have been stuck for a while now, when...
When, yes, it’s September 2001 and this is my 9/11 story. When one of the cabin crew tells us:
“America is closed and we won’t be going there today.”
Then the plane turns around, lands us safely at Belfast Airport and history happens elsewhere. But not to us, thankfully, not to me.
I do get to America though, that following spring. Film-making as well as facilitating, from San Francisco up the coast, via Oakland and Portland to Seattle. And as with the 1990s chapter of here you can read the details of it all in the links that follow, links to the concluding “Stories of A Sense of Place.” Where the business Sarah and I set up and ran together turned out to be everything we’d hoped for and more. Until, as you’ll see, our lives moved on.
Stories of A Sense of Place: From 2000
Which almost brings the memoir to its end.
Even though there’s so much from this century not written about. Still seeming too recent, as I’ve said, too close to the present day. There’s our camper van and camping holidays, all of our walking and allotmenting, Sarah’s cancer diagnosis and treatment, her becoming a funeral celebrant, the deaths of my parents and younger sister, my years of solo work and social enterprise, writing this blog since 2012, Clare having her children, my giving up drinking then discovering early mornings and classical music, that ill-judged second go at university, a frustration apart from finding my friend Abi and working together all the way through the lockdowns, Sarah and I getting our house renovated at last, then my recent years of spiritual searching and stopping that have culminated in this memoir.
All that.
And there was the late return of housing. Films for Liverpool Housing Trust, the former day-job, and for various other housing organisations. Then Granby 4 Streets, easily the best housing work I would ever do. Much written about on this blog over the years but worth a few links of its own here.
Stories of Granby 4 Streets
And maybe I will write more about some of those things on what the blog moves on to now “Seventy: A Life” is done. Maybe, who knows? But that will do as an ending for the memoir.
Because stories end where their writers decide they will. And this one woke up on the morning of his seventieth birthday and decided just that. Then set off with Sarah for a day out in Chester, knowing the book was done and it would soon be time for me to start imagining what’s next.
Which I’ve begun now, with a name “The Magazine” and some ideas that I’ll be back here to talk about soon. After a short break for a few walks and some more thinking, obviously.
So thank you for reading. And I hope you’ll stick around for what’s next.
Ronnie
“A Life: At Seventy”
All Chapters
A Beginning: “Do You Like Soul Music?”
1, 1954: Being Born, Walton
2, 1955/58: To Maghull, via Bootle
3, 1958/69: The 1960s, When We Were Boys
4, Still 1969: The Other Songs On The Wireless
5, An interlude: Maybe We Could Organise Hope?
6, In the early 1970s: Up The Hill
7, The Middle 1970s: Decisions
8, An interruption: About My Heart
9, A Reconsideration 1976: About Liverpool Housing Trust
10, Days In Public 1979: Dreaming Dreams In Stolen Moments
11, The 1980s: A Slow Untangling
13, Some Reflections: OnTime And The Writing Of All This
14, The 1990s: Put The Message In The Box
15. At Seventy: On Becoming More Quaker
16, A Story Ends: And My Afterwards Begins
A very belated happy 70th birthday Ronnie - I have enjoyed reading these blogs so much, your journey through place and people, past, present and future. Thanks so much for sharing them with us. It's great to hear there will be more thoughts, more writing, more walking. I am here for it!