Before I reveal how things were looking up, some more about the background of the title.
Four decades later, I was looking at my all time favourite photo, of my family, minus baby brother, standing outside our house, in the grassy surrounded, peaceful area where we occupied a new build on the outskirts of a town.
It suddenly dawned upon me… if we moved for a bigger house, as our baby brother had arrived, then why did we move to a house in the next town, the same size in bedrooms?
We’d gone from a large front, side and back garden, with scenic views of fields and hills, as far as the eye could see, to a multi-leveled pokey front garden and a concrete small yard?
I rang my sister and asked, “Why did we move to a house the same size with smaller or no gardens?”
“I don’t know!” was the reply.
Not content, I spoke asked Mum, “Well we didn’t like the neighbours!”
I asked Dad, “Your mum wanted to move, but the house we moved to was a lovely house wasn’t it!”
But we had always believed as we were told, that “We needed more space!”
This was clearly untrue and not the full story.
So I thought back, while talking to my sister about her mates and some of the neighbours.
Next door was a solicitor, across the street our family friends had their own business and left to run a very profitable newsagents in another town. On the adjacent street, own business owners were everywhere and family friend’s parents were very high up in a local company.
Now of course, the move could have been due to the very high interest rates of the time and difficulty in funding the mortgage, but both mum and dad had never even suggested this.
There was a family whom had moved in just a few months before we left, who had been castigated on a regular basis, for their old battered car and dress sense of their children (wellies and fur hooded parkers).
The only possible evidence of money troubles, were the realisation that when we moved, certain things didn’t come with us to the new house.
Our bikes, my sister’s wardrobe, our settee, etc.
Mum and Dad had both insinuated that they didn’t get on with the neighbours. I asked why, but never got an answer.
The next house was in a neighbouring village, a bit less green spaces, but a park close by and plenty to do. I didn’t have an issue, quite enjoyed living there, but my brother was bullied quite often and didn’t fit in at all.
This was in late 1977 and by early 1980, we were on the move again, this time to a different county, where Mum and Dad hailed from.
A much bigger town, where there were fights everyday in school.
By late 1982, things had gotten worse, we moved at short notice to a council house, on an estate reknown for trouble, probably why we got the house at such short notice. The transfer from where we were growing up in 1977 to 1982, were exact polar opposites.
I moved back to the area, as I said and now work close by to where I was happiest.
So now I can see changes and similarities between now and then.
The area holds familiar trends and patterns, as before.
The area has of course, changed beyond recognition to what it once was.
The ruins of the old farmhouse, left to rot after the sole family member died, have long gone and been turned into a small seating area, but the conker trees still grow there, just as before in the farm courtyard.
The old cinder track leading to the farmhouse, is now new concreted street/road and the grass which grew in abundance around the old farm is now a mass of quarter of a million pound house.
The football pitch strip of grass, where many new players found their footing, is another street of £300,000 houses.
The area where we all used to spend endless winter days sledging on the hill, is now a street of houses named with reference to my own name! Although this is down to the area’s plant life rather than down to my family name, but it’s a coincidence I smile at everytime I pass it.
A neighbouring park, although unable to access directly from where we used to live, as the in excess of £350,000 houses block out the former direct route, remains as clicky as it always was, even when I used to pass through it.
The chicken sheds where “Old Albert” used to live have long gone, replaced by yet another street of hastily put up, over-priced houses, that no one local will ever be able to afford.
The corner shops that lined the route to the former school have long gone, now converted into houses, with no remaining features of what they once were. The former school building remains with traces of a brighter era, where many fun and games took place. It’s no longer a school. This had a new one built, on the neighbouring estate of rich houses, to accommodate all the new people moving in to the area.
The spirit lives on at the new building. The area has retained much of it’s previously historic life for children to play and be happy, just as many of the parents are still trying to “Keep up with the Joneses”
This brings me back to the title I posted…