by Bob Mundle

Created on: September 30, 2009

Remember, remember

There are times I remember with fondness, and times I wish I could forget. The seasons each hold myriad joys and fears, stratagems and tears. If we could go back just once, but change things forever, would we be the better for it?

When summer ended and autumn crept along the river bank that snaked past our house, turning the bushes to wonderful browns and reds and misting the hills, my friends and I began to prepare for Bonfire night, an event looked forward to in our small world the way the most children anticipate Christmas. From the beginning of October we would go up and down our road with a little handcart, scrounging anything that would burn and storing it in one of the empty buildings in the builder's yard that backed our home. Mum made a dummy Guy Fawkes out of straw and dressed it in one of her brother's old suits, (Uncle James always seemed to have one ready for the occasion), and Guy would sit in the corner of our playroom, an honoured guest until it was time for him to be sacrificed to the God of the Flames. Even the neighbours entered into the spirit of the night, preparing trays of fudge and jaw-breaking treacle toffee for distribution, and if we were very lucky, there would be toffee apples.

Just after tea-time on November the Fifth the house would begin to fill with friends, cousins, aunts and uncles and neighbours. The kitchen buzzed with laughter and occasional mild curses as my mother and her sisters prepared baked potatoes and sausages to feed us kids, and more exotic curries and rice for the adults; and the noise level increased every time a bottle of sherry (QC, of course) was passed around the foursome.

All the fireworks were secured in Uncle James' battered tin trunk and only my father and James were allowed to undertake of the mysterious ceremony of lighting the blue touch papers and filling the night with magic.

It was the rockets I loved best, but that filled me with a strange, aching sadness, their brief, bright kamikaze flight ending in smoky darkness. Uncle James always let me handle them, warning me to be careful, and I would inspect each one minutely from sharp tip to balsa end to ensure that they contained no imperfections to mar their moment of glory; then each of us would be allowed to write a message on the stick, and it was considered terrible bad luck if anyone's burnt out rocket carcass was found the next day.

At six o'clock the evening really came alive, when we carried tinder to the prepared site

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