THE EVENING I WAS SHUNNED

The year was 1966. I had been brought up in the Brethren church {or maybe 'sect' is a more appropriate term). One memory I have is missing the 1966 World Cup match because we were rebuilding the church hall. The original had been a 'tin tabernacle'. The incident describe here came at a time when I had put myself out to be helpful. I would soon start a university course in Biblical Studies so I was taking an A level course in preparation. I had an inquiring mind and not everyone appreciated my line of questions.

The Brethren were fundamentalist Christians for whom the Bible is the the 'word of God' which could not be questioned. University study took a different, academic, stance after learning the original languages.

This tale happened on a Saturday evening. There was a talk and discussion on freedom and I asked the question about why women were excluded from active involvement, One 'brother' had been a member of the more extreme Exclusive Brethren who refused to socialise with non-members. He stood to his full height (he was a tiny man) and screamed at me theological obscenities). Did I not know the the Bible demanded that women be obedient to men and silent in church. Yes I did know their belief system and prejudice. He finished by declaring me a heretic; demanding thar I be shunned, that is never to have contact or relationship with anyone in the church, including parents, relatives and siblings. Although the man was clearly out of order, the elders phoned and visited me to condemn me. I was 16 or just 17. They criticized my father for not bring me up right. and blamed me for leading him astray.

In fact I shunned them, and freed myself from their church. I told this to a university friend who edited the Anglican journal Crucible. From that came my first published article on the position of women in the church (1973). By the end of the 1970s female vicars were being trained. However I no longer identify as a Christian.

At university the Anglican church behaved similarly.

PENZANCE

A few blogs now on signifant holidays. We went to Cornwall every May for forty years at school Whit holiday. Our first break was to Lamorna Cove, near Penzance, a small family hotel with walls covered in pictures by Lamorna Birch who lived next door. When they sold up, we took a variety of holiday lets, most commonly in a cottage which had been an annex to the hotel. Our main purpose was to visit the new art exhibition in the Penlee House Gallery. Jean was very interested in the Cornish artists especially the Lamorna, Newlyn and St Ives schools.

Peter Dawlish In childhood Jean was a voracious reader and remembered a children's series about four boys sailing a masted fishing boat named Dauntless. We searched bookshops and found copies, finding that the author was Peter Dawlish. One year we found a Lamorna village history on sale in the village shop indicating that Peter Dawlish was the pen name for James Lennox Kerr who lived in a house we passed every year overlooking the bay and was married to the daughter of Lamorna Birch. There was a board adversing paintings of the Kerr family. We knocked on their door which was opened by a bearded sailor with three small dogs. I introduced us as people interested in his father's books and he said that most people asked about his artist grandfather We struck up a friendship that lasted until his death. We went to his 80th birthday celebrations and I helped him write his autobiography. He was by career a hydrologist (that is he mapped the ocean bed). James Lennox Kerr wrote on a range of topics, the first an account of his crossing America as a hobo by jumping trains. Then he wrote adult fiction, social novels about poverty in Scotland where he came from. He also wrote crime stories and stories about ships. He tried one story for boys,The Blackspit Smugglers. After war service on mine-sweepers he wrote a series of about four boys in the sailing boat Dauntless, which Jean came across in the Bradford City library.

Penlee House Gallery is close to the Penzance promenade with Morrab Gardens to the right. The Penlee House Gallery to the left it has a small museum and a permanent art collection, not to mention an excellent cafe, several times a year they put on themed exhibitions bringing together paintings from other galleries. We came down for the opening week and bought the bulky exhibition souvenirs. We therefore have a record of each exhibition.

Gardens. There are beautiful semi-tropical gardens in Cornwall. I am focussing on three near Penzance that we went to regularly. The gardens of St Michael's Mount are not open every day. They are set on a steep hillside and rockface and filled with tender plants. There are alsothree balcony gardens leading down to the coastal path. Trengweinton Gardens (National Trust) has a colourful garden alongside the drive. At first we showed tickets to an old lady at a window. Sparrows were flying in and out.The Minack Theatre is an outdoor theatre which puts on a regular programme.. It has a natural rock garden full of aloes, and other tender plants. We went to West Side Story, at which a basking shark plus cub stole the show other one we went to was Our Town, a conversation beteen ghosts in the graveyard.One year we stayed close to Trebah and Glendurgan gardens.

There are also many plant nursaries to buy tender plants.

Stevie Dufyn March 2024.

GARDENING.

 As a schoolboy I was taught to garden by my grandfather. We had an orchard plus veg garden. Our first garden after marriage was tiny, a postage stamp front and back. Our next garden, in Salisbury, was not much bigger. It was our Swindon garden that had more scope, though it had and has problems  of its own. The back was an orchard, though th fruit trees were old and diseased. The one still left was I estimate 200 years old. The back garden has a number of natural springs. Set on a hill, it is now set on three levels. My wife and I developed it so long as she was able, until 2015 when her dementia took hold. We were both specialists  in different plants, and we visited RHS and National Trust gardens regularly. Her knowledge, including plant knowledge, disappeared almost overnight.

 Although we have taken part in village open weekends  since 2000, The bast time for the garden was after my retirement in 2008. We have specialised in growing unusual plants including several species of buddleija, weigela, bottlebrush, hostas, hemerocallis, scented-leaf pelargoniums, even a fothergilla. In2012 I took a photo a day throughout the year which can be found on romancourt365.blogspot.com. My wife's illness from 2014  gave me less time in the garden and made it impossible for her to continue, so the garden was neglected as I cared for her over the next seven years. Now she is in a care home, progress can begin again.

Last autumn the heavy rains caused a retaining garden wall to collapse; it was replaced on Monday. There have been plant casualties requiring replacement. Looking around I see only one penstemon still alive, so have a growing list to buy. Penstemons were once considered annuals because they were hard to overwinter. It was customary to take cuttings. Fortunated new strains were developed which were more resiliant and these are now easy to find. Most were bred in Pershore and carry the name Pensham. Apart from that, I am searching for anything unusual. I plant as a botanist and not an artist, so don't expect clipping to death, or neat lawns but rather plants looking natural and high tolerance of wild flowers. It goes without saying that I aim to be bee-friendly, and that means organic.

The garden is the same size front (west) and back (east) and also has side beds north and south. There is a greenhouse and polytunnel in the back, neither used effectively. A summer-house is used mainly for storage at the moment. When bought, the house had a derelict swimming pool removed when a house extension was built. It was replaced by a double garage. The greenhouse replaced a railway carriage used as a workshop.

Plant names. Although many people are scared of plant names, I find them a source of pleasure and look into their archaeology. Common names differ area to area and are easy to remember. In the 18th century, Carl Linnaeus began to classify plant names in a form that botanists thoughout the world would understand. The academic language of the time was Latin and that is still used today. At first they looked for similarities to other plants to decide on plant families.For example, clethroides means 'like a clethra' in the family Lysimachia, popular names 'gooseneck or Chinese loosestrife' or 'moneywort'. Lysimachia was the ancient king of Sicily. 

The earliest names were descripive, and often quite long. I have a print of a wild fuchsia found in Chile and grown in Kew in 1788. It  was given the name Fuchsia after the German botanist Fuchs and in full Fuchsia coccinea foliis oppositis ovaltus dentitulatis petalis obovatis obstusis. It has since been named Fuchsia magellanica, the explorer Magellan's Fuchsia.  Today, dna analysis shows which species are inter-related and names and names change. 

Propagation. It is is expersive to fill a larger garden with full price mature. Sprinkling annuals (plants which die after flowering and setting seeds) can offer quick colour. If bought in autumn they might be half price. Sowing wildflowers will help the bees. Clones come from cuttings: fresh tips are the most reliable. I put several around the edge of a plantpot and put it in a polythene bag to maintain humidity. If done carefully, most should root. They will need nurturing when in small pots. Plant in the garden the following spring. Don't forget to label.

   

MEMORY

 How memory works is a puzzle but it is clear that memory is a way of organising experiences.It is imperfect in that the memory may be   hard to recover, and may be imperfect when the initial understang of eveny is in error. Rubbish in, rubbish out, you might say.

Gradual memory loss is regarded as the early stage of dementia and patients are referred to 'memory clinics'.In my wife's case, it was quick and sudden, possibly a  long term effect of brain damage, undiagnosed up to that point.  She had a series of stroke-like episodes at the end of 2015. A brain scan in Januage reveal consoderable brain damage. This affected her ability to read, talk and understand.

So what is memory? It can be compared to the brain's operating system structuring and connecting varied experiences to make it meaningful.Memory is not just the recall of experiences or information but is an attempt to explain. These explanations will be subjective and personal. Dementia blocks these explanations.

Enhancing Memory.   

Some memories are embedded and are generally at the centre of our minds. They may be triggered by high spots or low. They are fundamental to who we think we are. My situation has changed requiring me to sift through draws and boxes, relics of sixty years of adult life fed by the question 'Do I keep it or throw it?'. The same issues arose when clearing out my mother' house ready for selling. It is the deeper well hidden memories that I am focusing on here.

A necessary preparation is to release storage of the things we wish to keep. For me, throwing away is difficult and the first question to myself is whether it can be reused, repurposed even upcycled. As I do not have the time or inclination to upcycle, re-use by moving things around is an option, or giving it away to an upcycler for more drastic changes. Disposing of 'stuff' needs to be disciplined and unsentmental, reducing everyday items such as sheets, towels and good quality clothes to charity shops or even displaying it on the roadside free to take or requesting a charity donation.This will leave some souvenirs which remind us of people and holiday. By all means keep just a few significant ones but a photograph takes up less space.

I find that the act of decluttering triggers memories of a half forgotten past, holidays enjoyed, achievements made, relationships consolidated. There are a few items from my wife's childhood - a musical box, a child's tea-set, a teddy, a toy sewing machine, and a large Rupert Bear collection. These mean nothing to her now. Some are distributed to friends to consolidate their memories, much as happened after my mother's death.

 Memory, Experience and Research

When I  studied for my PhD in the 1970s, I was taught that research consisted in finding information (historical sources in my case) and interpreting these as objectively as possible. Subjectivity was frowned on. Indeed, it might have led to my failure. In the decade that followed, topics like biblical marriage, family and women were taken over by female young scholars who used feminist interpretations which incorporated their own experience as girls and women, summed up by Phyllis Trible's Texts of Terror featuring rape and violence.  There followed a substantial movement of Biblical research highlighting the female experience of patriarchy. This was part of the development of qualitative research which focuses on experience as opposed to being countable and observable. Memories might be inaccurately remembered and need verifying, maybe by triangulation, via documentation or by other participants. Equally documentation might be incorrect requiring information to be carefully checked. A comparison of newspaper items shows this. Even eye witnesses often disagree on major details.

Also evocative of visits and holiday, TV programmes remind us of places visited. While writing this, I am watching Alice Roberts' tour of the archaeology of Egypt and being reminded of our similar trip in 1982. Similarly, trips around the middle and far east brings back memories. The Repair Shop makes me look again at some worn-out items. Having spent my life studying and collecting plants, replacing casualties and using TV as my eyes and ears replaces nearly forgotten experiences and knowledge.

Memory and Story

The human brain spins memories into a coherent story. That story may reflect reality, or may be delusional, at least in part.. It the story might over-emphasis personal weakness or guilt, or may spin the memories to justify  dubious behaviour.  It will be important to verify the story from the memories of others involved.

So  memories are embedded in stories which establish their  contexts. My own stories of childhood and schooling can be found earlier in this blog. A story is a remembered account of what happened but also will contain some explanation: such explanation will not always be credible, serving more as self justification. There is a very thin line between fact and fiction leading to some confusion. Most historical accounts require verification. Some newspapers  have been deliberately deceptive. We create our own stories, about coping with the present and planning to pursue goals. Our personal stories might be positive or negative, promoting achievement or failure, remembering successes or failures. The secret is to learn from both. 

In my wife's case, loss of memory happened rapidly, days rather than weeks. It reduced her ability to read, write, sew and knit, indeed anything which requires hand-eye coordination. She could no longer tell the  time or find her way around the house.She had for several years been a volunteer in Kelmscott Manor but at the end came home upset because she could't do what was required. The cause was brain damage after illness, as a brain scan revealed in January 2016.

One element of qualitative research is the biographies/ autobiographies of researchers and researched, providing a context for the research. This kind of research exists to understand and explain. based on memories and personal history, gleaned from interviews and discussions. This produces deeper data which can be questioned and interogated during the interview to enrich the data. 

There are useful questions: how did life experience as a child shape the kind of adult you became? Are questions of nature and nurture significant? When does childhood end? My memory of childhood is being curious, asking lots of questions and challenging what I was told. My refusal to believe inFather Christmas from the age of three gave great concern to local parents. I was an early reader and have scarcely slowed down since. I remember giving a talk age 9 on becoming a scientist when grew up so must have been confident at public speaking. I was active, camping, football and so on. And from time to time quite naughty. Childhood finished aged around 14 as I began to study for university and gained some responsibily in the home.By the age of 21 I was married and enrolled on a PhD.

Disappearing memories

For some, myself included, memories get brighter over time, but for others detail dims, names disappear, and facial recognition becomes confused. Usually some brain problem is at the root, maybe Alzheimers, or a stroke or some other damage to the brain caused by accident or illness. Alas, as people grow older, dementia numbers rocket; and environmental polution makes its onset earlier in life. Finding loved ones forgetting who you are is painful. But it is part of life's inevitability. 

Stevie Dufyn, March 2024.

        

50th Anniversary of my PhD

 My PhD was completed and handed in during 1974. We were married since 1969 and my grant ended in 1973. To pay the mortgage I had to take a post of secondary school teacher in Buxton. The school had merged a secondary modern with a grammar school and all was not going well. My head of depaertment had had a brakedown in November and our pregnancy miscarried. It was the year the school leaving age was raised to sixteen. Half of my teaching timetable was with pupils who didn't want to be there. I wrote up my research during this difficult year.

I chose my research topic in 1969. My course was Biblical Studies and I was inspired by a course on ancient Hebrew social institutions by Arnold Anderson and noticed that there had been very little recent research on this theme. I had already had a major row with my church on the rights of women which ultimately caused me to leave that church. Much more has been published now, mainly by women but mine was the first detailed analysis. Most new research focuses on  rather thanparticular stories, mostly of violence against women. My analysis was broader, indeed too broad. Having supervised 20 PhDs and persuaded students to think deeply rather than in breadth, I realise that I was given no such advice but just expected to get on with it. Also this was a period of emphasis on the Old Testament as history, whereas now I focus on the Bible as story which may or may not be historical. I corrected this in the structure of my 1989 book Creating the Old Testament.

As previous research had used (and misused) social anthrology this was where I started. There were some benefits (for example debunking proposed evolutionary stages) but overall was not a good use of my time. Comparing Hebrew with other Mesopotamian source, for  example the Hammurabi and Assymian Lawcodes was more profitable.. Source criticism was then unnecessarily time-consuming. My substantive chapters are on marriage customs, intermarriage, incest, adultery, and levirate marriage.A final section on the family was more than I should have attempted, although the work on patriarch was useful. I never managed to publish except for one article on Leviticus 18 and 20, on forbidden marriages. Indeed I now can see that a great deal of extra work was needed to turn the thesis into a book. Feminist research was taking off in the 1980s, pioneered by Phyllis Trible, which led to an enormous body of new literature which I continue to study.

FIRST MONTH HOME

 I arrived home from hospital just before Christmas. I bought a smartphone and laptop to give myself computing on the road. My wife has settled into the care-home very well and her sister was able to visit. I changed my GP to a local surgery who have been helpful. I was getting on well with my physio when unfortunately I fell backward against a table and propably cracked a rib. So it is painkillers for a while. It is most painful when getting out of bed or a chair or twisting awkwardly. 

I was making good progress but my mobility and confidence suffered. The fall was caused by getting out of bed too quickly and losing my balance. My back and ribs were bruised by a bedside table giving me a sharp pain when sitting and lieing in bed and especially when coughing. Pain killers help. It is gradually improving so fingers crossed.

Hospital wrecked my eyesight so I have new glasses which I am getting used to.I now have to learn how to use my new smart-phone and Tablet  So a busy time ahead!

END OF 2023

 Apologies for those who did not receive a seasonal card, which means everyone. I was admitted to hospital on November 22. I was without computer or address book and flat on my back for the five weeks, uncomfortably. We placed my wife in a good care home locally where she is being safe and continues to settle. I had cared for her over seven years and could no longer do so safely. She doesn't know who I am and so does not fret.

It is hard to describe something so boring as lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling being kept awake by lights at night, snoring and nurse chatter I was next to the nurse station. At 6am we were woken up by lights on and first obs (blood pressure, blood oxygen and temperature. Then a light breakfast. I was urged to eat and drink more, bur couldn't, my stomach and lungs were restricted by the fluid. Being on water tablets I peed all night.Meds came next, then doctors did their rounds.Of the nurses, a number came from Kerela South India and were delighted tha t had been there.

As it was a teaching hospital junior doctors crowded around my be, and interviewed me about my symptoms. Two carried out the drain after being shown how, and under supervision. In excess of10 litres were drained off, I was never told how much.That reduced my size and weight -- and of course energy.

The final week was in 'intermediate care' (rehabilitation) which was disappointing. Physio led, I didn't see a physio till day 4. They had to tick off simple tasks about living at home - could I make a cup of tea, climb stairs, wash and dress mayself and walk safely with a zimmer frame. I could do all these on the main ward but was forbidden to do most without supervision on rehab. I spent more time in bed because I was forbidden to walk around. I soon rebelled and the  staff gave up on me. By Friday the allowed me home, proving handrails, chair arms, a shower seat and bed  rails to help me out of bed. I am making good progress. I am eating better and drinking better. I hope I begin to put some weight on now.

Respect.

Written on International Women's Day 2023.

The song Respect had a history in the 1960s, promoted by Otis Redding and redirected by Aretha Franklin into the feminist anthem it became. It came from the 1960s but seems tame today - when her man comes home, give the lady some respect.

All I'm askin'
(Oo) Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit)

It led to the song Natural Woman, which was again not the feminism that would develop later:

When my soul was in the lost and found
You came along to claim it
I didn't know just what was wrong with me
'Til your kiss helped me name it
Now I'm no longer doubtful, of what I'm living for
And if I make you happy I don't need to do more
'Cause you make me feel
You make me feel
You make me feel like a natural woman

Today's feminism demands agency andfree choices which are free of patriarchy (that is male demands. Women musicians were freeing themselves from male demands to be pretty eye candy, subject to 'the male gaze' criticising their looks, bodies and behaviour. Violence against women was and is a consequence of these outdated male attitudes. The battle for female emancipation is renewed still, decade by decade.

Respect was a civil rights theme also. Bob Dylan's Blowing in the Wind became a civil rights anthem:

And how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind

The chorus draws on the Biblical book of Ecclesiastes: all is vanity and a striving after wind. It cannot be grasped.. Such a text would be well known to Robert Zimmerman.

I had been involved as a carer to my younger siblings through the 1960s. Those years were controlled by the evangelical Christian group called Plymouth Brethren who devalued the role of women. Many of the young women I knew never really broke away. When my mother did, she said that she wished had broken away years before because she found her local church so welcoming and supportive. I as a 17 year old raised the issue of female freedoms in a Bible study public meeting (led by a preacherer ironically called Short) and was shouted at by an out of control former 'Exclusive Brethren' member, bullying of the highest order. I was taken to task by the 'oversight', the senior men because I had asked such a question. Good grief!. They were wrong and I was right. My PhD topic was about marriage and the position of women in society. My first publication in 1972 was about women in the Bible, not brilliant but at least authentic.

By the time I arrived at Manchester University, the evangelical fundamentalism I had been brought up with have been challenged and rejected. Essentially I had become an enemy to patriarchy and to coercive behaviour in general. I was slow to distance myself from evangelicalism. I remember seeing adverts for the Bahai Faith in my first university term. In that transitional period of my life I might have joined them as they have much that morally appeals to me. In terms of this item, Bahais believe in equality of the sexes and condemnation of misogyny. Their belief in the divine was less fundamentalist than I had been taught with more emphasis on mystery. Today I find this harder as I have distanced myself from divine realism (as opposed to a symbolic metaphor). I nevertheless value my later work with Bahais.

My life has always been female focused and my social and academic ambitions have been concerned with the emancipation of women, both in real life and in student work. My wife too devoted her teaching life to supporting female students and colleagues. Some are still in touch. There are some interesting stories. School teacher friends in Oldham married in the early 1970s and we agreed to drive them to their hotel. But they were interested in steam railways and had a long term connection to the Worth Valley Railway and on their wedding day the preserved locomotive 92220 Evening Star, the last steam locomotive to be built (1960) was in Haworth where a party was arranged. So of course we drove them to Haworth, where we all enjoyed the party before delivering them to their hotel. Meantime, back at the wedding, folks had decorated their own car with tin cans, only to see us drive away on our Austin A40. 50 years later they are still close friends.

In the late 1980s I was working in teacher training in Oxford, and she became deputy head of a girls' comprehensive school, a quarter of whose pupils were Asian, mostly Pakistani. We became very close to the Pakistani community. This paragraph features a close friend who has been like family now for 35 years. Though she had a teaching qualification from the Punjab, she was only allowed to work as a teaching assistant in England, working with the Equal Opportunities Centre. She registered for an MEd which she passed, and with the help of our local HMI Ron Arnold we managed to secure qualified teacher status for her in 1990. We went to Pakistan for a family wedding in 1992 and as I worked away in Birmingham that year Jean stayed with her to save her commute during the week. The school closed because of falling numbers, leaving Muslim girls with no school to go to. So this friend and Jean set up a small Muslim girls secondary school which had excellent exam results and help many girls to university courses. I supervised this friend for her PhD for which she interviewed 80 former pupils about their educational experiences and their consequences. She now was an Oxford University post.

A final story. Jean worked in Swindon College from the early 2000s until the powers that be unfairly closed the department. A colleague and friend.applied for and was offered a school post subject to references, but Jean found the request sitting unanswered in an in-tray. Enough to say that after a bit of shouting, a reply hit the post that day and the offer was confirmed. There the colleague met her husband and has been happily married now for twenty years.

I hope we have both enriched the lives of the women and girls we have met and taught and encouraged them towards independent lives with personal agency.

FRAGMENT: The 1980s.

 The 1980s started with a job move to North Riding College, Scarborough, then affiliated to Leeds University. I was to teaching in a course on world religions, and education studies. Jean stayed at home commuting to Devizes School with a colleague, Lionel, and applied for a couple of posts in Yorkshire without success. We looked at a few houses, again without success. My knowledge of world religions was sketchy, drawn from the few school textbooks then available. This post offered me the opportunity of in depth study. In order to balance my secondary school teaching experience I studies for the Post Graduate Certificate in Early Years Education which included a dissertation in early reading. I supervised students in early years settings as well as junior and middle schools. I lodged firstly in a 'winter let' (holiday flat hired for the winter season) and in summer had a flat in the College. My study on Filey Road overlooked the harbour and castle, built-in distraction. The journey to coffee in the winter was very cold. Home was 310 miles away so I couldn't get home every weekend. Jean came over during her half term.

There were memorable events and incidents. There was a classical music series who put on fortnightly concerts. I remember a performance of Samuel Barber's Reincarnations, a composer of importance to us who had recently died. A different group went to Opera North: I remember Boheme in Leeds and Samson and Delilah in Hull, the first operas I had been to. I was in the chorus of the Gilbert and Sullivan light opera The Sorcerer in 1982, by first and last experience of performing. Our student days were to orchestral events in the Manchester Free Trade Hall. 

I applied for and accepted a similar post in Westminster College, Oxford. from April 1983 and we looked for and bid for our current house near Swindon between Oxford and Jean's job in Devizes - a restoration project that would take many years to complete. Jean became Head of Careers in her school, in  addition to her history teaching. She made close friends I am still in touch with today, but more inexplicably enemies, In retrospect I think some victimized her for her hidden disability, the brain damage I have spoken about elsewhere, the effects of which she coped with admirably. Most of my work in Oxford I focused on education, including multi-faith religious education. Biblical Studies was taught by a different team. I taught Interfaith Studies in a new degree, and developed it into a distance learning degree, M.Th, in  Pastoral Studies for church ministers. The sessions on Islam, Hinduism and Sikhism are still online. The Judaism module was co-written and does not survive online. I became Postgraduate Tutor in 1986 in charge of PGCE primary and secondary and planned an Early Years version. Course leadership was gradually delegated so my role changed in the 1990s.

During the 1980s I put together a book for university students on the Old Testament/Hebrew Bible. We wanted it to be written quickly so divided the 16 chapters between different writers, all university lectures or professors. It was the story of the writing of the Old Testament. I gave it the title Creating the Old Testament: The Development of the Hebrew Bible published by Basil Blackwell in 1989. One writer pulled out and I wrote the chapter on Moses in her place. Another did not write to brief, so I rewrote 'Stories of the Prophets'. My scheduled chapters were Introduction, 'The Bible and Islam' and 'Symbol and Metaphor'. 

The book followed the general pattern of Torah (Law), Prophets and Writings, with a final chapter oon the additional books in the Septuagint, the Greek translation/version. The assumption of the book was to follow the evidence rather than assuming belief, so it was a critical and not conservative text.  Thirty five years later it is still in print.

I also became involved with the union (NATFHE) Religious Studies Section which produced the journal Journal of Beliefs and Values for which I wrote and reviewed frequently. There is a list on my CV on stephenbigger.blogspot.com. 

FRAGMENT: The 1970s

 We married in the summer vacation of 1969 before Jean started her new job in Oldham Unfortunately we had already offered on a house in Marple on the edge of Greater Manchester town and country.  The view over Manchester below was stupendous. That meant a tricky commute to Oldham through Hyde and Dukinfield. A colleague lived close by so they shared lists from time to time.. She was a history teacher with some religious education. It was a bizarre school, an independent grammar school that used to be called 'Direct Grant' as opposed to Local Authority schools. The heads of departments came out of the ark and we still have Miss Roker's greening academic gown with occasional cigarette burns, all a bit of a change from the rough and tumble secondary moderns of her teaching practices where the high spot was Shite O'Brian, nicknamed for her vocabulary. Once I remember she got to school only to find she had lost her voice - not noticed earlier since our morning routine did not include conversation.

From those four years in Oldham some friendships still exist. Among her pupils were daughters of a Yorkshire TV producer who reappeared in her life unexpectedly. As she graduated in Oxford's Radcliffe Camera for her MSc in 1986, the eldest daughter graduated for her PhD and we found ourselves reminiscing with her step-mum and sister, her own mother having died a decade before.

My time was taken up with PhD research for which I had three years funding. My undergraduate work had been in critical Biblical Studies and my PhD focussed on ancient Hebrew marriage, something that had been scarcely tackled up to then (1970). That was finished in 1974 before a major wave of feminist study linking exegesis (explaining what texts say) to female experience today (hermeneutics) enabled writers to go down relevant experiential wormholes.  Times have changed and my own normal advice to my PhD candidates to to look for depth rather than breadth, contrary to the advice I was given.

When funding finished in 1973 the mortgage still had to be paid. My grant had been £600 per year, the house cost £4300 and the monthly mortgage was £22 6/8. We wanted to start a family so needed to supplement my wife's salary. Pregnancy normally meant giving up your job in those days. Pregnancy happened very quickly and I was offered a post in Buxton, a new convergence of grammar and secondary modern schools. I had not done a PGCE, which was not required then, so it was learning on the job in the deep end. The baby miscarried in November and there were no more pregnancies. Throughout the 1970s a succession of crude medical interventions were unsuccessful. IVF was first successfully performed in 1978. Discussions with the adoption services accepted our application eventually, but after four years of ineffectiveness. We offered a home to up to three siblings, any colour or condition, but they would only sanction a white baby (who never appeared). The 'service' had no further communication with us. Additionally our niece died of  meningitis aged eight in 1977. So all in all it was not a good decade.

The merging of two schools did not go well. Nor did starting a teaching career without guidance or mentors. My Head of Department had a nervous breakdown in November (I found him crying in the cloakrooms) so I was in charge of a department of one. My teaching load was around 800 pupils, one lesson a week so it was hard to build relationships, hell at report time. I had more time with pupils who did not want to be there. It was ROSLA year when the school leaving age was raised to 16 leaving a reluctant cohort imprisoned and unable to get jobs. So I looked out for teaching posts which meant I could leave mistakes behind and have GCE classes. It was rare then for an RE teacher not to be a regular churchgoer so an atheist like me did not fit in well, so my next job was in Wiltshire a local authority grammar school about to go comprehensive. That meant a major upheaval moving house and for Jean a change of job. Reflecting on those choices in retrospect, that was not a good decision. The distance from family and friends. My new school had many failings and poor leadership. Jean had opportunities for promotion in Devizes, though her line manager was misogynist which had mental health implications. 

 I was offered a term of 'schoolteacher fellowship' in in St Martin's College, Lancaster in 1979 hoping to turn my PhD thesis into a book. That did not succeed, but had other implications. The decade allowed us to see my mother's sister in Portsmouth, who we became close to, and my grandparents in Nottinghamshire, a rather longer journey. Salisbury also had a good theatre, often frequented. However, retrospective reflection contain moments of regret and none of this was easy on Jean, a guilt I now feel strongly. It left Jean at the mercy of grunting hedgehogs and an escaped tiger which made the national news. The circus came to Devizes and a tiger escaped and wandered around the school. While senior staff hid in their cloakrooms, Jean rounded up the pupils outside to bring them to safety. This is how management delegation works: never do anything you can't get some other poor soul to do.

The staff begged me to be the union rep in a school that was increasingly unhappy. That was probably a mistake and certainly brought me no benefit. The headteacher regarded me as a threat, not a supportive helper and our relationship was soured. The chance came for university level teaching, so the 1980s saw many changes.

FRAGMENT: Youth 1 - Secondary School

 I moved to a Grammar School ten miles away in 1959. It was a sparsely populated rural county with pupils from close to Lincoln (my primary school) to Grimsby and Cleethorpes to the east, a thirty mile radius. We relied on a school bus but for after school activities had to use a late service bus or on occasions a bicycle. The house system focused on villages and geographic areas. Mine was Stow, Rasen covered Market and Middle Rasen, and Hainton the area east towards Wragby. The fourth house was the Boarding House, many the sons of forces families. The latter had an advantage of being able to practice for long hours. The school had a small swimming pool, but I was never taught to swim I latterly discovered that a close work friend had lived in the school when her father was headmaster in war years, and later I had a student who had left the school two years before I started

My younger brother was born when I was 11, when my younger sister was four. My older siblings were away at Boarding Schools .I developed caring responsibilities as the oldest of three still at home..  Enough to say here that it was an emotionally turbulent time for me. My first three secondary school years are best forgotten. It was a 2 form entry school of 300 pupils and this resulted in my relegation from the top form to the bottom, after being caned for something inconsequential. Fortunately this relegation came at a time of renewed motivation and I became a compliant pupil and achieved moderate but acceptable GCEs. Previous to that I experienced physical abuse from a bullying teacher, and psychological (coercive) abuse from another. I managed to turn myself around at 14 and would like to say a teacher helped me do this, but they did not. I was not a high flier and was socially awkward, a bit of a loner. I managed to set up a study with a 6x3 foot desk and book shelves behind. These survived until my mother's death.

In terms of sport, I was competent at soccer and rugby but found some resistance from staff, ending with being the only first  soccer team member (my preferred team sport) who was not given 'colours'. I concentrated on athletics, winning the victor ludorum (winner of five disciplines) and still holding the school record for triple jump and taking part in the national championships for long jump.

Intertwining with school was church, which for me was the Plymouth Brethren (and sisters, uncaptalised). Sisters were not allowed to teach 'Brethren', much as female priests and vicars could not exist. The 'Brethren' were and are fundamentalist evangelical Christians who inhabit 'Gospel Halls'. Those that brought me up did a door-knocking ministry, much like Jehovah Witnesses, and  open air addresses. It is true these hoped for new converts, but they also consigned hearers to hell as those who had heard and rejected the message no longer had the excuse of not having heard. The Brethren I knew were authoritarian, patriarchal, believing in verbal scriptural 'inspiration' which means authored by God. They certainly did not like the kind of questions I asked. The inner tensions meant I had no friends at school, and limited relationships at church. 

The resulting confusion of loyalty led to my decision to apply to university to read Biblical Studies, and to get there I studied it for A level through a correspondence course with Wolsey Hall, Oxford as there was no one in school to teach me. I completed the two year course in nine months. and achieved an A grade. Biblical Studies in university was critical even though many of the lecturers held clerical positions (e.g. the title Rev.).  Manchester and Sheffield Universities had professors who were affiliate to the Brethren and had good critical reputations and I chose Manchester. School were convinced that I would never get a place, but I ended with a First Class degree. The course required learning Hebrew and Greek from scratch, but it was a later course on Hebrew Social Institutions by a Latvian scholar Arnold Anderson which led me to a PhD on Hebrew Marriage and Family - far too large as was common in those days. I submitted the thesis just before feminist exegesis started which would transform this particular topic over the rest of the century involving mostly women scholars.

This pushed me towards the university Christian Union in spite of the theological contradictions which came to a head during my second year which ended in our marriage. Yet some of those friendships have lasted over the next fifty years. However theologically I had moved though agnosticism to atheism, that is a rejection of literal scriptural interpretation regarding the Bible as word of God. I contributed a chapter on metaphorical and symbolical language in my edited book Creating the Old Testament (1989) which was my anti-fundamentalist manifesto. I had hoped for a university post but there were none available in the 1970s and we had a mortgage to pay, so I became a school teacher. Eventually I made my way into teacher training.

All this is ancient history now. Life is what you make of it so when doors close find some that are open. Know what you want. For me it is to work towards are fair and just society and world. And try not to be distracted.

FRAGMENT World 1 - Syria

 These fragments will be renumbered over time. Today Syria has raised its head because of the earthquakes.

We went to Syria in the mid 1980s alongside a week in Jordan. At that time it was rare for tourists to go there. The Assad family were autocratic and apt to send in heavy handed troops. It was a coach tour, since independent travel was not possible. There was a great deal of poverty with queues for bread and food. We crossed the border into a huge traffic jam at Passport Control.  The 'ghost' of D E Lawrence was evident as we visited the Crusader fortress of Krak de Chavaliers near Homs. Lawrence  had visited Syria as a student and wrote thesis on Crusader fortifications. He was remembered in Homs from his more belligerent days. Laurence supported the local insurgents against the Turkish authority on behalf of the British war effort. Homs suffered from the vengeance of the ruling Assad family, so not much changes.

Damascus was the base for visits to mosques, including one that held a head of John the Baptist, who was a Muslim prophet as well as a figure in Christianity. There are other heads. We visited a Christian monastery who gave us sips of nice wine so we bought a bottle. Having got it back to the hotel the wine was foul so we used it as disinfectant to clean the toilet.

Palmyra was better, a nice hotel with underground bathing, a 'spa' in which we were the only visitors. The Roman ruins are the best in the world, enormous in scope. Again we were the only visitors. When children took an interest, a parental voice shouted Leave them alone. But the children we met were fine and I introduce you to Maria. She was about 12-13 and was looking after four younger siblings.  I asked her if I could take their photograph, and she was delighted. Alas my Syrian slides have disappeared but I haven't given up on them. Maria would be in her 50s and I often wonder how she fared.

Syria was a tragedy then, a tragedy later, and a tragedy today in earthquake country. The tragedy was exacerbated by British and French decisions on boundaries between Syria and Turkey which robbed the Kurds of their land. Destabilized by the ISIS war, Syria is a criminally tragic place.

FRAGMENTS 2:Childhood - Flint House.

 Flint House was my home up to the age of 6. It was near the Common. It was built in the year of Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, 1897 by Mr Flint who manufactured tarpaulins. My parents had bought a shop in the last years of the war, hardware and bicycles and bought what was a prestigious but run down house after demob. As a Warrant Officer he may have had a substantial severance.

The front had a tiny garden, although its current appearance may be a refurb building out a reception area to what is a B&B/small hotel. The back garden I remember more, my secret garden. There was a tennis court to the left, then a rose garden, a small pond with a naked lady in the middle (small boys notice these things). Then a door to the outside world, not openable by me, a shed containing dangerous chemicals which could have killed me and did kill the goldfish. These gardens were sold off after we left,  the tennis court surviving for a while, and eventually demolished to make way for housing.

Up the stairs to the house was an outdoor toilet on which I spent many happy hours reading my books. It was from this vantage point I saw a barrage balloon being taken to the Common around the time of the 1953 Coronation.

Indoors I remember the Victorian encaustic tiles in the hall that I ran my blue police car over. I had whooping cough here, my siblings had scarlet fever. There were three of us at that point born 1944,1946 and me 1948. We slept in the same room upstairs, and had a living in lady, Mrs Kyme, with a daughter Ann. I assume but cannot confirm that she was a war widow who was offered accommodation for some light household duties.

There was an indoor bathroom/toilet because I remember getting up early and making my parents a cup of (pretend) tea with water taken from the toilet since I couldn't reach the sink. I remember their horrified faces to this day.

For the Coronation my aunt had arrived from Ireland with her two daughters (father was from Dublin) and they had coronation frocks made by mother and aunt who went to sewing class. My mother's sister and daughter also were given a room but in the coronation photograph she wore ordinary clothes. Mother's sister an family moved to a wooden house my uncle built, near an RAF base where he worked. Father's sisters family moved to a council flat above a shop which became part of the family chain of hardware shops run by my uncle who had severe mental health problems. To fund all this Flint House was sold and the family, soon expanding to five children, moved to an out of town semi wholly inadequate for family needs. Four years later we all moved to a more roomy house in a village quite a way out of town.

I remember school close to Flint House as being a terrifying place. I could already read and write so copy-writing onto slates was not particularly enthusing. These were the days of 40 to a class so education was rudimentary

FRAGMENTS 1. Childhood - Santa

These accounts cover remembered events, many of which have been frequently discussed among family and friends. Though limited in scope, they raise life issues of some importance.

 This first one is about me aged 3-4. The house and context will be explored in the next item. I recounted this with one of the carers who was horrified, until I said, "Well, I was only 3!". I remember it as a discussion with my siblings, especially my older sister. I was saying, somewhat stridently, that there is no Santa Claus. Presents came from Mum and Dad. Sister said she would stay awake and prove me wrong (she didn't manage that). Mince pies were put out, which were eaten (by Dad said I). My mother indicated that I preached this far and wide, and other mothers dropped by to tell her to shut me up (no easy matter). 

How I worked all this out I do not recall but I suspect I was over aware of what was said on the radio and to the conversations around me. The wider issue of lying to children stayed with me. There is of course a magic in fantasy. Through childhood the fantasy world in Rupert Bear Annuals was a constant influence (Christmas presents) but these were obviously (to a young child) just stories. Father Christmas has a big presence in these Annuals.

My skepticism made me ambivalent to the evangelical Christianity I was brought up in. Many of my age mates there stayed with it for life, but my awkward questions were found uncomfortable and I was even by one declared a heretic who ought to be thrown out. 

Respect for children and intellectual honesty is what I have drawn out of this.

Valentine.

 Busy with tidying up and throwing away unwanted papers, I came across a Valentine Card to us both from a carer in 2020. It says:

Happy Valentines Day 2020.

A little sweet treat for you both the share.

The devotion you have to each other in the daily care shown in your beautiful home speaks volumes and is quite something to be part of.

Keep caring

Keep loving

Keet smiling

Keep laughing

Keep going

Keep well

Keep doing an amazing job Stephen in your care and love for your beautiful Jean.

If she could tell you today how much she loves and thanks you I know she would. 

In Other Words - Songs of Experience

Not a poem but I hope you enjoy this anthology.

Relationships last for days or decades, all remembered , all .dear. Here are a few songs conveying emotion, hope and love, life's soundtrack.

* * *

I took my love, took it down
I climbed a mountain, and I turned around

And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
'Til the landslide brought me down
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm

* * *

Everyday seems a little longer

Every way, love's a little stronger

Come what may, do you ever long for
True love from me?
Everyday, it's a-gettin' closer
Goin' faster than a roller coaster
Love like yours will surely come my way

* * *

Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again
I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away.
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died

* * *

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools" said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence.

* * * 

We were talking about the space between us all
And the people who hide themselves behind a wall of illusion
Never glimpse the truth
We were talking about the love we all could share
When we find it, to try our best to hold it there with our love
With our love, we could save the world, if they only knew.

* * *

Always and forever, each moment with you
Is just like a dream to me that somehow came true
And I know tomorrow will still be the same
'Cause we've got a life of love that won't ever change.

* * *

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love

Hineni, hineni, I'm ready, my Lord
There's a lover in the story, but the story's still the same
There's a lullaby for suffering and a paradox to blame.

There is a crack, a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.

* * * 

Can you hear me calling Out your name?
You know that I'm falling And I don't know what to say
I'll speak a little louder I'll even shout
You know that I'm proud And I can't get the words out
Oh, I want to be with you everywhere.

* * *

Why not think about times to come
And not about the things that you've done
If your life was bad to you
Just think what tomorrow will do
Don't stop thinking about tomorrow
Don't stop, it'll soon be here
It'll be better than before
Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone

Acknowledgements:

Stevie Nix, Buddy Holly, Don McLean, Simon & Garfunkel, George Harrison, Rod Temperton/Heatwave, Leonard Cohen, Fleetwood Mac.

Comments.

#1 I met my wife on the Conniston Old Man mountain

#2 My wife's first LP was a Buddy Holly compilation.

#3 American Pie was iconic in the 1960s. I was brought up with church music which died for me after church abuse. 

#4 The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel was also iconic. Silence is political, the decision not to be aware of social justice.

#5 George Harrison's spiritual songs emphasise relationships and ethics, a summary of our lives.

#6 Rod Temperton was a secondary school fellow pupil. I focus this passage on my wife who I am caring for, a life of love.

#7 Leonard Cohen has been the soundtrack of our lives. These extracts emphasise love and service..

#8 The loss of our conversations sums up my reaction to her and possibly her mental struggle to express herself. Meanwhile, reflection on life can be positive.

GOODBYE TO 2022

 As I won't be sending out cards this year end, this post is an update on our year. Many thanks to the people who have kept in touch at this time over the past fifty years. The tree went up today after stubbornly refusing to be found. I was persuaded last year to buy a fake tree by the carers. Here it is with built-in flashing lights, erected in 20 minutes It was hiding in the loft.

 We always had a real tree and Jean used to enjoy spending all day dressing it. Here is one in happier days, with a visiting friend

My wife Jean has been seriously disabled for 7 years now after three difficult decades for her. She has acute brain damage which has stripped her of language, reading, knowledge and ability to process radio and television. She does respond to music though and lives mainly in her own inner world. I look after her at home after a brief stay in an awful care home arranged by social  care. They neglected to feed her a main meal four times in five days (fortunately I was there to insist) and once even forgot to put her to bed. We have evolved an effective routine at home, with carers coming in for an hour morning and evening and some respite/companionship time on some weekday lunchtimes. A year ago she was in hospital with malnutrition and dehydration (she seemed unable to swallow) and I was advised by the A&E doctor to arrange her funeral. Fortunately I was allowed to spend 5 hours a day at her bedside and make sure she built up her strength by eating properly and she was allowed home after ten days. Her room is what used to be the dining room, containing a hospital bed with air mattress, a hoist and a chair which prevents skin sores.  She spends her day either in her chair or bed (both provided by the NHS) and sleeps a great deal, usually with Rosie the cat. 

The cats are 18 now and both have a hyper-thyroid condition which require two tablets each daily, morning and evening.. One is incontinent which makes life interesting. First job of the day, cleaning it up. 

The garden has been a struggle. I pay two young gardeners to keep hedges  trimmed, shrubs pruned and odd jobs done, and a local plantswoman to help sowing and planting. I grow runner beans, beetroot, chard, rhubarb and green salad. Flowers include penstemons, salvias, cosmos, fuchsias and there are lots of shrubs - roses, weigela, mock orange, buddleias. Sadly it is not the joy it used to be, just a chore. Here is a callistemon, 'bottlebrush' flowering last week unseasonably.

Alas Covid has meant very fewer visitors over this year, but neighbours, nurses and carers have been good company. I have kept writing. This blog is a kind of day book, a bit more than a diary and you might enjoy some of the entries. Recently I have been reflecting on aspects of life and have found poetry to be helpful. I am strictly an inexperienced amateur but I have found the process therapeutic, challenging yet enjoyable. 

I sadly have to report the death of family members Ian Madden and Matt Dagg, friends Viv and Sue, and several former colleagues. I hope you all have a good 2023. That may be optimistic but we can but hope.  Stephen

Obituary, Vivian (Viv) Bartlett.

I learnt about Viv’s death on Monday. He and I worked together in Swindon in the first decade of this century on a project to raise self-understanding in school children. At first the children we worked with had opted out of schooling and learning, with acute social and family issues. The project began shortly after the millennium exhibitions in The Dome and Viv’s part in the work with children was called The Discovery Zone. This consisted of exercises with difficult children to draw out discussion on the consequences of actions and attitudes, and how to cope with the emotions driving us to a pro-social or anti-social outcome. The detail simplified over the years, asking the young people to decide whether to be consumers or contributors – that is, whether to be part of a wasteful throw-away society, or to contribute to creating a better world.

Viv had been a secondary teacher who based his teaching philosophy on patience and respect. Viv and his wife were members of the Baha’i Faith, a monotheistic faith which teaches equity, justice, the continuity of religion, anti-racism, anti-misogyny, environmental protection and many other issues which chime today with ethical living.

I first encountered Baha’is in the 1980s but almost did so in 1967. This was the year I went up to Manchester University to study Biblical Studies. My theology was fluid since I had unhappy experiences with the fundamentalist Christian sect I was brought up in. I saw a flier for a Baha’i meeting in my first term and had I attended, the outcome may have been different. The Christian fundamentalists continued to campaign abusively against my critical understandings and we parted company in early1969. I became a school teacher from 1973 since no university posts were available. My wife and I met in 1967 and we became close in summer 1968 and married in 1969.

Since the 1980s I built up a substantial number of Baha’i books including scriptures, and met many Baha’is. . I agree with the ethical underpinning but my rationalist understanding of theology is not compatible with Baha’i theology.

Viv and I collaborated on his book on the Youth Empowerment Programme under the title Nurturing a Healthy Human Spirit in the Young (published by George Ronald 2014) which described and explained the empowerment process in detail. He asked me to write an introduction, which I did. I had been an external evaluator of the programme throughout 2004 to 2008.

Viv was a man I was privileged to know and work with.

POEMS: An Introduction

 Below this Introduction are six poems, the first I have written. I don't claim quality for them but they forced themselves on me and I had to get them out of my system so I can write other things which are blocked. They are not the rhyming sort of poem, though they are occasional purposeful rhymes.  I have not studied literature or poetry

A bit of background. I am full-time carer for my wife of 53 years who now has no language she can communicate with, and has lost all knowledge she ever had. Things are as they are. I have tried various ways of writing autobiographically without success. These poems satisfy me most and give me the flexibility to explore things that come to mind. I appreciate it is hard for readers who have not shared my journey to tune into my personal reflections. But be assured that for me it has been a positive experience, maybe therapeutic. Much in the collection is celebratory and I hope this can be a starting point for readers.

I use a pen-name for the sake of privacy, 

Poem 7. Grief, a persistent stalker. by Stevie Dufyn

Grief, a persistent stalker.

Stevie Dufyn, December 2020

A child is born, and eight years later is dead.
Grief, they say, gets easier over time.
They are wrong. That 8 year old
Would now be fifty four, with children and grandchildren.
So a grief trebled.

A child not born, or miscarries
Might-have-been children, a daughter, a son
A dream, a hope, a future, redirected.
Or a child born who might have been a friend
But decided otherwise.

A mother, once an artist and carer
Found an imaginary family
But lost her own for twenty years
As they sadly saw her disintegrate.
Compounding the grief.

A wife, planning a life with a husband of her choosing
Hearing the knock on the door with the news
That she no longer has a husband.
Grief, they say, gets easier over time.
They are wrong.

Grief is a stalker, striking when not expected.
When reading a book, or watching a film,
Or hearing a song, or talking with a friend,
Grief breaks down the myth of control
After a year, a decade, a lifetime…

Grief, they say, gets easier over time.
They are wrong.

 © Stevie Dufyn December 11, 2022.