Arthur Hugh Clough’s “Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth” is a poem for the weary. Not for the triumphant, nor for the newly inspired, but for those who have begun to fear that their effort may be pointless. Clough does not begin with triumph. He begins with correction: Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are…
I keep returning to Unquiet Landscape: Places and Ideas in 20th Century British Painting because it’s that kind of book – one that invites rereading. Neve’s introduction is a guide to how to read the book which is not an art history survey of schools or influences, but a reminder that landscape painting is never just scenery. It is about…
One childhood ritual during the days between Christmas and the return to school was the day trip to London. The main purpose was the January sales and the destination: “the London shops”. Swindon had a department store – McIlroys on Regent Street (it even had those amazing overhead wire and pulley cash railway systems that transported money and sales slips…
When I was in the emergency room last year having busted my elbow, a nurse asked whether I had ever broken anything else. I expect she was probing to see whether I had acquired that oldies’ habit of throwing yourself to available floors and sidewalks.. I had a ready and precise answer; “Yes. I broke my arm on November 5th,…
In his day, the Soviet poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko’ was something of an international rock star whose readings could fill sports stadiums. He was one of those A-List literati who make the front pages. His poem Lies was much anthologized in English teaching materials in the years following its publication in the Soviet Literary journal Novy Mir in 1959. The kind…
This tweet about toasting marshmallows on a fire stoked with Harry Potters brought to mind an odd incident from my childhood. To the amusement of the world, my home town decided to ban a classic of medieval Italian literature as obscene and pornographic. The year was 1954 and book was Boccaccio’s Decameron. Until that point only three people in the…
First Grade by Ron Kortgee Until then, every forest had wolves in it, we thought it would be fun to wear snowshoes all the time, and we could talk to water. So who is this woman with the gray breath calling out names and pointing to the little desks we will occupy for the rest of our lives? I read…
And the #1956Club is open for business and this time I’m joining and you can too.. I’m old enough to actually remember quite a bit about 1956 and it’s technically possible that I read some of these books in the year they were published. I was an avid three books plus a week reader as a child and at eight…
This is a follow-up to The Queen of Mean and one of a series about Headlands Grammar School and what I remember and learned in my seven year sentence. By the time I got to the sixth form I had learned to keep below Miss Jacob’s radar and anyway she had younger fish to fry. Hundreds of them – all…
When Senior Mistress Miss A. Jacob retired from Headlands School Mr.Magson had this to say in the school magazine: Two comments about that: While I don’t doubt the truth of Magson’s words, I didn’t know then, and don’t know now, any student who had a good word to say about Miss Jacob. There’s a little collection of some of the…
Everyone who ever had Merv Comrie as a teacher at Headlands has a story to tell. Merv left an indelible impression on all those he taught. My own favorite moment came as he was taking class 4M through Macbeth explaining everything line by line – that time-honored English teacher way of ensuring students will not get any pleasure from Shakespeare.…
Before I learned to be afraid of Miss Jacob I was terrified by Miss Almond. First week, first form at Headlands. First history class. Miss Almond, in her academic gown presiding. She was one of those teachers who could see round corners and knew what you were up to even though she was busy writing on the big roller board…
The schools we attend and work in help shape the people we become. Seven of my sixty plus years in school were spent here – at Headlands Grammar School, Swindon. It is long gone and the site redeveloped. When people go into education as a career they sometimes seek to replicate the good experiences of their own schooling. Others dedicate…
It’s a late afternoon on a winter Saturday of my childhood. And that means the big Ferguson radio – the one that had the exotic place names on the dial – Hilversum, Strasbourg, Luxembourg, Limoges, Toulouse – is warmed up. The fire is lit, the coal scuttle is full and the kettle is on. And my father – who was…
When a re-wired, pack-rat educator takes a deep dive in the basement there’s no telling what she will find in those decades worth of edutrivia. (This post by the way is Part Three of “My Life with the Spirit People”. Part One is here. You may ask: “Where is Part Two?” Well – I haven’t written it yet.) Take this…