Jaz (James Davidson)

A Christmas Eve Story

As I sat in my armchair reading the Evening Gazette, I was taken back about thirty years. It was a cold and wet November evening. The streets were empty, and the wind was blowing the rain into my face. I could see the phone box at the end of the street from where the urgent call had been made, but the house number 1a could not be found. An elderly lady had called the house asking for the doctor, her great niece was pregnant and in discomfort.

I decided to knock at number one and ask directions. I was told, “Round the back”, before the door was closed quickly on me. As I pushed my way past the bins and overgrown hedge, I could see a dim light through a small window. I was greeted at the door and taken quickly to the young lady. Her husband was working, and her great Aunt was staying over a few days to help prepare for baby’s arrival. It soon became clear that baby was imminent and would be delivered that night.

The house was less than basic but Auntie was a great help, rushing around preparing what was needed. Jenny (the young lady) followed all my guiding and soon we had a beautiful baby boy. The gift of new life has never ceased to amaze me. There was a moment when Auntie was holding the child in the crook of her arm, she looked at him and said. “You will be called James, and you are very special. We have waited such a long time for you”. She placed her first and second finger of her right hand on his heart, bent over and kissed his forehead. Before I knew what was happening, Auntie said “Here, have a cuddle” and there I was, looking into the child’s eyes. That moment was an eternity and I could sense something that I could not understand but strangely did not disturb me.

A few nights later in the newspaper, there was a mention in the birth column: “James Davidson born to Chris and Jenny. Blessings and hope for the future. Love, Auntie Liz”. What are the ingredients, what needs to happen, for there to be hope for the future? Could James, shape, mould, create new colours – that our lives became fused in such a way, that possibilities became our reality. Now, I was beginning to dream.

I had little contact with the family over the following years. Life was not easy for them, but they seemed content in their unity and keeping themselves to themselves. James became known as Jaz and gained some popularity around the community, involving himself in social action, speaking out against injustice, poverty and inequality.

I read this evening in that same local newspaper, how he intends to run for office in the next election. He is challenging a regime that has been very comfortable for far too long. Jaz speaks with simple words of truth and wisdom that has freshness about them. He speaks with integrity that people respond to, they want to believe and turn away from how things have been. The old ways will not give up easily and I can see a battle brewing. I remembered again that first moment I held James, and wondered, how this story will end.

©Copyright 2013 John Pearson

The Gardener

In relation to poverty; someone said to me recently. If you were setting out to clear a garden of weeds, it really doesn't matter where you start or how much you can do - just do!

I don't regard myself as a gardener but I am a willing labourer.

Tickling Fish

Wandering and wondering has always been a pastime greatly enjoyed; you never know what you are going to come across or even imagine. Each walk was an adventure with many possibilities; I could be a warrior, hunter or explorer, just as the fancy took me. Every tree was different, with shape and character all of its own, blown by wind and weather.

A frequent walk would be as far as low buildings, and the wood just beyond; Granny’s farm, now owned by my uncle and his family. This was the place where my Mum was born and I spent many a holiday with my cousins. There was always something to do: collect eggs, take the milk cans on, potato picking, hay timing and fastening in the hens. You might imagine it was all work, not a bit; rummaging among the old stuff stored up in the stable chamber, jumping off bails of straw and making dens in the wood.

We always knew there were trout in the beck, but I can’t remember the first time we realised they were big enough to catch and eat. Imagining ourselves as Robinson Crusoe, we would plan how to catch this wild tasty delight (we didn't consider the preparation at this stage). A rod and a float seemed quite impractical in such a narrow stream; a net might be a plan.

Sunday lunch followed the church service, but straight after the service was also a ritual, as men folk would gather over the road and to the left. The women would be just outside the gate and we kids would be over the road to the right. There was a progression for us young lads, as we increased in years we would move closer to the men; conversation moving from games to farm work, joinery and such like. Family was wider than just a name, for it stretched out within a group of names, associated with each family. Groups extended to neighbours and shared work relationships, a community network spanning distance and time; a sense of belonging, and fitting in to the way of things. It was one such Sunday morning, one of the older men suggested we tickle the fish with our hands and hook it onto the bank side; we wondered if he was pulling our legs. My uncle was a man to be believed and he verified the art, saying that tickling hypnotised the fish so you could grab it.

This new found skill had to be put to the test, so all seven of us set out down the beck that Sunday afternoon. Our eyes were glued to the water; we had seen fish here before. Talking was reduced to a whisper and it felt like we were walking on tip toes. “There”, said Chris, “there’s one”. I had never heard silence like it, apart from the rippling stream as I approached the edge. I rolled up my sleeves and laid flat, face down. The water was so cold as I moved my hands slowly toward the undercut bank; my heart skipped two beats as I touched the fish. Wiggling my fingers in a tickling motion, the fish seemed quite content; I smiled and nodded my head to the others. At that moment there was a flash and he was gone, the disappointing sigh from those stood around said it all.

We walked for a few hundred yards or more and came upon a likely spot, the bend in the stream had created an overhanging edge and there was the biggest fish we had seen. Chris was straight in; my fingers were twitching, imagining what he was feeling. A moment later, Chris jerked and it was as if half the stream had come out with the fish, we all got showered; but where was the fish? It had to be here among the grass but was nowhere to be seen. Then Bernie, the youngest of the group, frozen to the spot said “it’s down me wellie”, the fish was head first down his wellie, flapping its tail fin against his leg. There was a deed to be done with a stone that was carried out without a word; the procession back to the farm recounted the excitement over and over again, even the one that got away.

There are no fish in these becks today and the stream is barely a trickle, but the skills and how we learned them, became a template for much more than just tickling fish. Remembering the old ways, and how often things that seem impossible, turn out to be great fun.

The old man's song

The old man climbed long and hard with all his strength till he reached the top, encouraged by those below; unable to hold on to the sheer edges. He shouted out all that he could see, but the crowd below could not hear. He began to sing loud and clear, his voice carried on the wind. He sang of clear air and fields of green, trees, fruit and berries of plenty, and cool streams of quenching water. Those below took up stone from the ground, and fashioning tools began to hew foot holes into the steep face; soon every one of them, were free from the darkness.

Loud discontent as they saw, all was not as the old man had sung; very little fruit, no berries but good soil and water. The crowd were about to turn on the singer when a young boy said; “if he had not sang that song; we would still be in darkness”.

A Quiet Listen

To achieve great things, begin by doing nothing.
From nothing comes everything and everything amounts to nothing.

Take time to discover you, then everyone becomes familiar.
Notice the things around you and you will see your next step.

Step into the quiet, and wait just long enough; to hear the small voice of clarity,
refreshing, like a mountain stream.

Practice makes perfect, so my father taught me; but also to be satisfied with what I have.
To forgive myself is to forgive others, so my freedom rests with me.

Note to morning office: Create some quite this day.

The original King

How many times we must have copied and shared this track - as recorded live with Alan Andrews. The King is among us and his glory shall be seen; as we learn to touch each other. ...

The King

Written by Alan Andrews and shared among many, this wonderful song was re-worked by Andy & Lynn  who worked with Zion Community. Choreography by Andy Raine and friends, this has been danced all over the world from streets to Churches. Very emotional just listening to it again.