Of A Mentor, Neighbour, Colleague & Friend.

My eldest son recently sent me the news of the death of his Y6 (fourth year junior in those days) teacher's death at the age of ninety-one. E (Mrs B to kids and parents) was someone I greatly respected. I’m not sure that many people had the opportunity to know her in quite as many roles as I had - a mentor, one of their children’s teachers, a colleague, a neighbour and a friend.

I got to know E in 1977, when I was her student on my final teaching practice at a junior school in the Home Counties. We had actually met briefly a few times some years previously when she was herself a student. She had been widowed early and took on a job as a school secretary at a school within walking distance of her home. The head teacher, one of that rare old-school breed of wise and kindly men, realised her potential and encouraged her to train for the profession as a mature student. It was purely coincidence that we both trained to be teachers at the same college, though we were not there at the same time.

Each of my three teaching placements were in the same town and I remember much more about being E’s student than I do about the other two schools. This was down to E herself. Not only was she an exemplary teacher who was respected among her colleagues, but also her pupils were very loyal from what I could see. She suffered no nonsense from pupils, but I don’t remember there ever being a storm around her. You know how some people seem to generate noise simply by occupying a space? Having worked in hundreds of schools over the years I spent in education I've seen plenty of those but E was not that kind of person and not that kind of teacher. She was very patient with me as I tried to cope with the class she was forced to entrust to my care, and I aspired to be as good a teacher as she was. Watching me at work with her precious pupils must have been a painful experience for her. Whenever I observed her at work she was always impossibly methodical. I've never mastered that grasp of any area of learning other than in music and I never managed her ability to control classes containing a significant proportion of pupils exhibiting challenging behaviour (again with music being an exception). At the end of that placement, she invited me to join the class trip to York, so I suppose I can't have been a complete disaster. The college didn’t generally allow their students to act as accompanying adults and, by definition, free labour on school trips, but I went anyway. E had planned a great week - walks round the city wall and through the historic city centre, trips to the National Railway Museum, the Jorvik Centre, the Castle Museum the Minster and a trip out to the coast to look for fossils.  Our visit coincided with the triennial performance of the Mystery Plays and I asked for time to attend one of the evening performances. I've written more about that experience here. E asked me if I would take four pupils with me. She had four in mind whom she specially thought would gain a lot from the experience. As always she wanted the best for her pupils. The plays were not on the week’s itinerary for the trip because she realised that the majority would prefer the evening activities back at the youth hostel. I wonder if the four remember that show? A student would not be allowed to take pupils unchaperoned these days with all the extra safety protocols that have to be observed.
I was in my third year of teaching and I'd stayed in touch with E. She had moved to another school across town, closer to her home and was the one who let me know that a job had come up in her school. I’m pretty sure she had a word with the head, which helped secure me the strangest interview I've ever had. I received an invitation to visit the school and after a tour and a chat, there being no other candidates in evidence, the head simply said, "Well, do you think you like us then?" Apparently that was his way of offering the job, although I had to ask to be sure! 

At that school, my respect for E as a most exceptional teacher grew over the four or five years I was there. She was certainly the first person I knew who taught yoga in PE! In many ways she was very reserved. She never offered gratuitous advice, but was always willing to give her time if asked. She specially seemed to have time for her pupils and I am sure she remembered something about every one of the children she taught. While there I moved house from across the town and was very happy to end up as E's across-the-road neighbour. She was a always a very private person, so we still saw more of each other at work. Her beautiful garden always put mine to shame though. She found children fascinating and was a great observer of child behaviour. She once told me how, from her kitchen window, she had watched one of my children spending ages examining a flower in our front garden. Apparently he turned it this way and that and it came off in his hand. E was very insistent that he hadn’t done it destructively and under no circumstances should I chastise him! He was just turning the flower to look at it more closely. She was always on the side of the child and she invariably saw a funny side to things and had an endless stock of anecdotes about teachers and past pupils, which she’d relate (often doing the voices too) though, to be fair I don’t know how much her pupils saw of her humour … It was hilarious listening to her and a former colleague at her previous school, hold conversations or tell stories pronouncing words the way children mis-spell them. That was a skill that took a lot of practice!

When I moved away from the town to take up my first advisory post we kept in touch. Whenever I passed through the town, which was not very often, I would try and make a point of visiting her. I valued being able to discuss professional issues with her and she proved wise counsel on other matters too. She also had the most remarkable memory. Even decades afterwards in her late eighties, she remembered not just the pupils she had taught, but most of the pupils in the school. I’ve no idea how she managed that, because I cannot remember seeing her about the school very much. She was usually busy in her classroom with a pupil, a group of pupils, marking work or mounting displays - we did all those ourselves in those days there being no such people as Teaching Assistants. I should have remembered more of the pupils than her because I often worked throughout the school with musical activities as well as my own class responsibility but, whenever I went to visit her at home, we’d reminisce and her memory put mine to shame. She would keep me up to date with the achievements of pupils and former colleagues she knew about and through her I was able to re-establish contact with one or two other teacher ex-colleagues. I knew her to be very compassionate and supportive from personal experience. 

One day when I was visiting her at home she dashed out of the room saying she had something for me. She returned with a pastel drawing that she had framed and kept from the time I was her student. Laurence, one of her pupils, made a pastel drawing of a scene from the story of The Firebird I’d read to the class as part of a topic on “fire”. She was amazed at the perspective and maturity of Laurence’s drawing. The picture had been hanging in her upstairs office for forty years and she had finally decided to part with it and wanted me to have it. The picture now hangs on the wall in my galley where I can be reminded of her every day - and how calm she was when my fire topic “science demonstration” threatened to set the classroom alight. I’m sure the cleaners were finding bits of black ash for days afterwards.

Laurence's pastel drawing of The Firebird 1977 

It is very sad the way things are at the moment. The plan is to scatter her ashes in her native Caithness when possible. Someone like E probably has many people who would want to remember her and celebrate her life. She would also be very likely to deny in terms that would invite no discussion that anyone could possibly be interested enough in her to want to say or write anything. Somewhere inside, though, I suspect she might be just a wee bit pleased.

The Ballad Of Thomas Lewis

One YouTube channel I find amusing and occasionally instructive is Zelph on the Shelf. I came across this video they recorded a little while ago that refers to the same sad story that prompted me to write “The Ballad of Thomas Lewis” some eleven years ago. They discuss these tragic events that occurred in Manti, Utah in 1857. I first encountered the story in Jim Whitefield’s “The Mormon Delusion Volume 1” (Lulu, 2009, p.170). It cropped up again in D. Michael Quinn’s 1997 book, “The Mormon Hierarchy: Extensions of Power” (Signature Books) and again when I read the near contemporaneous account by John D. Lee in his devastating confessional work, “Mormonism Unveiled” (Vanderwalker & Co. facsimile of 1891, originally published in 1877).

A few years ago I wrote a blog essay on this story that seemed to haunt me and described how I came to write “The Ballad of Thomas Lewis” where I also explain one or two liberties I had to take in order to tell the story coherently. I intend for the song to be included on the next album when I get round to recording it. I’ve included the full lyrics of the song below. A few years ago I was introduced by an MC who warned the audience that I write songs that make men cross their legs. I think he was referring to the ballad.

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This is a reprint of part of an essay I wrote six years ago and about a song I wrote eleven years ago. I'm bringing it to the top of a pile because yesterday I watched a video on YouTube that discussed the subject that seemed to have such an impact on me many years ago.

Many stories of the early days of Mormonism have been obscured, suppressed or altered.  I came across the story of a young man called Thomas Lewis in my researches a few years ago in John D Lee's 1877 book, "Mormonism Unveiled".  Although the version I read was not recorded until some twenty years after the events were alleged to have taken place in Manti, Utah in 1857, I found the story compelling and affecting and it wouldn't leave me alone until I had done something about it.  I wrote "The Ballad of Thomas Lewis" to give news of these events a little nudge.  Although I perform to very small audiences I hope that poor Thomas' fate does not disappear into obscurity.  We learn something fundamental about the Mormons in the actions of the polygamous Bishop Warren S. Snow and of the better known polygamist, the so-called prophet Brigham Young who, on hearing from one of his brothers, Joseph, about these events told him that he was "of a mind to sustain" the bishop.  He told Joseph to say no more about the matter and let it die away among the people.  That statement alone was my red flag.  I have taken some liberties in the ballad.  For example, I cannot find any reference to the name of the fiancée of Thomas Lewis, so to help tell the story I have called her, "Mary".  The harvest references are also my fancy.  I think that one day I should annotate the song, because it contains many references the specific meanings of which will only be fully appreciated by people very familiar with concepts and language used among Mormons.  Many present day Mormons will have no idea about some of these concepts and I suspect that most Mormons today will never have even heard the story.  A piece of social history I wanted to reference was the utter callousness shown within many polygamous relationships.  I had certainly never heard of the revered early missionary, Heber C. Kimball, (who was responsible for converting many British people and encouraging them to emigrate to Zion), referring to his wives as his "cattle" until I started to read more widely.  If any of this is true, it is certainly no longer useful.

The Ballad Of Thomas Lewis 

by Marshlander (2010)

1. Manti, in Utah, eighteen fifty-seven.

Frontier thinking tainted by the cult.

The one true faith where brethren hold the aces

Hope, toil and zeal etched in saintly faces.

Young Thomas courted Mary.  So in love

Was he, he swore there’d be no other.  She

To him returned the promise.  They’d be wed

When harvest’s safely home, they said.

2. Bishop Snow “lived his religion”.  Kimball’s

“Cows” – his own herd growing like them.  Humble

Never his demeanour.  Even crueller

His approach.  He was no godly fellow.

The Bishop sought an increase to his herd;

He, too, began to woo young Thomas’s love;

But faithful Mary turned the old man down

The chase became the gossip all round town.

3. Several wives were clearly not enough.  He, 

“Builder of the Kingdom”, here on earth.  While

Shoring up the promise for hereafter.

Only misery; no hint of laughter.

He pursued his prize with gifts and jewels

She was flattered but refused each one.

He told her she would be first resurrected

On the morning of the most elect.

4. Faithful to her sweetheart she refused

Once again his wheedling and his cant.

The old priest swore an oath in tones so chill

That she would be his bride.  It was God’s will.

And when this clumsy pressure failed to change

The young girl’s mind, the Bishop grew more mad.

He told her, if she obstinate remained, 

That God’s will would be done and she be blamed.

5. He told her that young Thomas could be sent 

To serve the Lord in missions far away.

He told her, never would she see him more

If she continued to refuse God’s law.

When she again demurred he took him then

Straightway to see young Thomas in his rage.

He threatened excommunication.  Still

The lad refused to bend before his will.

6. By now the Bishop, thunderous with lust,

Called faithful men to counsel late one night.

When Thomas entered in that meeting hall

He surely never saw what would befall.

When he came in the lamps went out and all

the heavy men piled in; then held him down.

The Bishop, with his knife and n’er a nay,

Fast severed off Tom’s manhood where he lay.

7. He snarled and spat, “I gave you every chance

To let me have young Mary for my own.

As punishment for thwarting of God’s plan

She won’t want you now you’re not a man!”

The butchers left the scene with Thomas still

Left lying on the table in his shame.

But Snow stopped in one final act of gall

To nail the severed trophy to the wall.

8. “Let all men learn obedience to God.

The Lord will not be mocked by any man.

Celestial marriage and eternal life,

My just reward, with Mary as my wife!”

Let the matter drop and say no more about it

He was called of God as a Judge In Israel

Let the matter drop and the people soon will doubt it

Ever came to pass, ever came to pass, ever came to pass ...

"The Ballad of Thomas Lewis" Copyright Marshlander.

As with many of my songs I set myself a musical challenge as well as a lyric-writing one. Some years ago I heard a discussion on the radio between two composers describing the difficulty of setting Shakespeare's words to music. It was mainly to do with the rhythm and meter. It was a fascinating discussion and I thought that one day I must have a try to see just how difficult it is to set text written in pentameters. By no means are my lyrics Shakespearian in quality, but they are certainly written in pentameters i.e. five feet in each line. I thought at first that I could get away with writing in 5/4 or 5/8, but I couldn't make that work. In the end I settled on squeezing the text into a waltz. When I sing the song I daresay it sounds to some as though it tumbles out as a stream of consciousness. That's how it often feels to me. As if that weren't enough I decided to risk minimal use of chords and see if I could still hold the listener's attention. I think the accompaniment on the repeating D major and C major chords encourages a meditative dorian feel. It appears the listener is either absorbed into the story or simply falls asleep ...

Letters To A Kingfisher - 9

Dear Mr Kingfisher,

Thanks for coming to see me this morning. I know you were too busy to stay long, but there was just time for a greeting before you had to go.

In two days' time it will be precisely one year since I have seen my lover and partner, P. Being apart and in different countries for all this time has been horrible. Not as horrible as catching covid I suppose, but we have to play the hand we are dealt. I am so looking forward to being allowed, and feeling safe enough, to go back to France. This period of enforced isolation has been not so different from my normal life in many ways, but in others it has proven very difficult. I am frustrated that I have not felt able to make good use of the time to work on musical projects; I certainly have enough half-started songs to finish. I've put that down to mild depression, something I do know about, but again that isn't the whole picture. I think the lack of purpose is what hurts most. If I have a performance coming up I practise and rehearse. I am not so consistent without the focus. I have also really missed going to see and hear live performances and I think that has also affected my productivity. I try really hard to avoid plagiarism, but a live show is often a stimulus for new musical ideas to begin rattling around in my head. I think it is the joy of witnessing music making in real life. A new idea may manifest as something "in the style of" and, only rarely, do I have to discard that idea completely because it turns out to be a copy of something I heard at the gig. I only have to discard it if it is irredeemable rubbish. The ideas have not been forthcoming, so I've not been writing much.

As always, there are conflicting items of news. I have a sense of optimism that the lockdown may begin to ease next month. As things stand it may be a further three months after that, before I can pick up where I left off a year ago. Of course, nothing can be set in stone, but there appears to be more optimism that we are on the mend. If, however, relaxing the lockdown rules also leads to increased cases of covid I really don't know how I'll deal with another lockdown. It may not go well. Of course, it helps that this week the sun is shining and I can power my devices, including this laptop, through my solar system. It is by no means warm, but I can wear shorts fairly comfortably outdoors. On the pessimistic side, I wonder if the weather is simply much nicer than it ought to be. It is March and I am wearing shorts. What will the temperature be like in high summer? We have had a lot of rain over the past few weeks and even more wind, but has the rain fed the aquifers sufficiently? So yes, it is wonderful to be contemplating the possibility of freedom of movement ...

Freedom of movement, there's a phrase. My next visit to France, whenever it happens, will be under very different rules and international relationships. I have no idea how the routines I developed for travelling to and fro will be affected by the fact that my movements are now subject to rules that haven't existed for the past forty years. Travelling to the USA has always felt more like travelling to a foreign place than travelling to France, but I fear that France may begin to feel more like a foreign country now. Whenever I mention a concern on a social networking site my trolls appear. One writes detailed responses that never seem quite to address what worries me and he usually admonishes me along the lines that I should have more "faith in my country", "depends whether you are a glass half-full or half-empty ..." kind of way. Yadda-yadda, yawn. Covid has complicated the whole picture with regard to leaving the European Union in an ill-tempered and discourteous way, but the figures seem to suggest that the effect of covid on people's livelihoods has been exacerbated by the negative aspects of Brexit.

The past weekend has brought to the headlines another important aspect of freedom of movement. I don't want to get into discussion on some of this, because I don't have a valid contribution to make. As a white male in my senior years my place is primarily to listen. I have heard female members of my family talk about some of their fears and experiences of being out and about on the street. I realise that some places feel very off-limits to them and the tales I have heard make me ashamed to be a man. The fact that I am constantly checking myself to ensure I don't add to the litany of acts exhibiting "toxic masculinity" is nothing compared to having to look over one's shoulder all the time and have to decide whether or not it is safe to walk this road or that, to challenge the cat-calls, the overt or soto voce insults, acts of intimidation, sexual or physical abuse apparently random and so casually committed, or ignore them. Until everyone feels safe going about their own business we do not have a free society. Being imprisoned behind the walls we have erected for our own safety is not acceptable.

This weekend we witnessed the police giving us a taste of a dystopia into which we are crashing at speed. It would appear that women holding a peaceful, socially distanced vigil were kettled and attacked by the police. The Home Secretary is pushing through legislation to curb our rights to express dissent. If the events of this past weekend are anything to go by little distinction in future may be made between holding or taking part in a vigil, a protest, a rally, a demonstration or a full scale riot. Under the proposed legislation it would appear that all these will be classified as acts of public disorder. These proposals to curb the freedom to express dissent are the most serious breaches on our liberty to assemble freely since the second world war.

So, Mr Kingfisher, what's going on in your world? I assume you are sprucing up your nest in preparation for this year's brood?

Here are some daffodils I photographed on the river bank recently. I hope you enjoy them.

Best wishes,

marsh