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Parsons Way of Life:
The thing that I must be overly grateful for on this trip to discover my roots, my heritage and see some amazing things is the gracious hosts that have showered me with hospitality. Kathy & Bryan King in Bedfordshire, Kellie & James in the heart of the city that makes me leap and my current lodgings in Stourbridge, West Midlands with Auntie Tricia, it is unfathomable how much they have helped me get by, a roof and a plate with some food free of charge is the best damn gift that can be offered to a traveller that lives everyday carefully counting the brass coins. That's right! I count the brass; the one and two penny coins! Most of you just dismiss them as rubbish and shrapnel, oh how I judge you.
However things must be said about this house I sit in now, I have heard the phrase "If these walls could talk", well unfortunately brick, mortar, plaster and paint fortifications have yet to be fitted with such devices unless you live in Tony Stark's abode. So it is the job of those that live their lives to record and archive the moments spent. We can do this by the magic of a camera, or the written words on a travel blog. It is therefore my vocation to add a little more to the nauseating history that encompasses this house.
Built more than one century ago in tandem with the house next door by Mr. William Thomas Harmon these houses have seen the same street change over decades into its quaint image of today. A street that cultivates tranquillity in its tenants; South Avenue a calm street with a delicate hush to its way of life, and now during my favourite season of Autumn the road and paths are littered with the ochre, brown, gold and vibrant yellows that precede the decadent approaching winter. It is quite ironic really, nature is submitting defeat to the harsh winds and cold temperatures of the monster that is winter, the trees lush green life and flourishing gifts of rosy fruit and scented flowers are falling and the leaves the constant unchanging aspect of the twisted knobbly branches, the leaves that hang in solidarity as spring, summer and autumn play with them are loosing their lives and silently gliding to the ground leaving a brown, spiky naked being that pierces the skyline and only entertains the company of glistening rain drops rather than a hive of life. The irony lies in the fact it is mesmerising, it is beautiful and yet it is death, to walk through a misty damp wood where the wet bark conquers your nostrils with the very scent of autumn and crunch upon thousands of the dead it is magnificent. On this street it is no different and as yet another autumn dreamily passes by number 26 as yet another thousand leaves decorate the pathway to the blue door and the garden moans with the growing winds I cannot help but wonder about the intrinsically interesting past of this house.
To start with it has had people from six generations of my family and the Parsons family tear through its rooms. The stairs that I bound up today to the front room where I sleep are the same stairs that have creaked under the weight of my mother when she was a child, my grandmother when she was just a mother, my Aunt when she was a naïve girl who knew little of the world back in the 1930's and indeed my second-cousins who are the latest additions to the family and the most recent bodies to travel the corridors and stairwells in the house. The house seems to have changed little, but instead just been added to over the years, it still bears the workmanship of the family that lived here in ornate gilt massive cabinets and sideboards, an antique vintage table from which I eat which are now joined by a computer and central heating, electric fires. It screams history at you being built upon an underground reservoir where the water used to be collected in the pipe system, manually pumped up to serve daily needs, with the remnants of the original outhouse and the knowledge of a now covered up air raid shelter in the back garden of next door. The cold dark cellar still houses an immense alcohol collection and the floor although carpeted still has that wonderful uneven feel that marks a work that was crafted decades ago with perseverance and love.
It has been very interesting to walk historical paths, when I first stepped into the corridor I remembered little from when I was six years old. Then I stepped into the hearth of the house the warm dining room, in the very centre and was hit with the scent of the past, the scent of the house and the scent that I so vividly recall from my early childhood. A scent that tore open the floodgates for a wash of memories that swam into my mind and drove me to recall the rest of the layout of the house.
Indeed visiting the West Midlands has been something I will not soon forget and as I age I hope never to. It has been a huge reconnection to my start in life and as I walk through town centres, visit historical sites and visit more family I find more and more just drifts across my mind and I can remember my youth in such fondness. One of the most spectacular experiences to date on this trip was visiting, No. 6 Holmcroft Rd. my home. The poor garden in the front has deteriorated from its humble beauty that was carved from Nan's skills, but the house from the outside looks the same, the same grey / black slanting roof that I distinctly remember staring at through my bedroom window. As I took photos in irate woman who probably thought I was there to steal her belongings came tumbling down the street demanding to know my intentions, when civilly explaining them to her I was invited into the house and shown around.
Marvellous.
I remember the inside only vaguely but to step into that building 13 years after I departed, when I am a load of inches taller was unbelievable and I guess slightly emotional. As soon as I saw the house from the inside I could remember where everything was, and to see my room decorated with a girl's pink and fairy belongings was almost ghostly. It was so surreal and I remember the times of lining up my toy cars in the front room, playing with Chloe the family dog in the back garden. It was all there. Hidden under the current renovations, hidden under the presence of this new family but it was there. My past actually present in the form of a building, memories, nostalgia, and sentimentality it was all there. Birthday parties, Christmas with the real tree that Nan always bought and was set high in the front room with shimmering decorations, the television blaring Power Rangers, the beige sofa where I ate mounds of spaghetti bolognaise, the stairs where the third wedge shaped one was the one that always creaked and you had to avoid it if you wanted to sneak downstairs when you were supposed to be asleep, the airing cupboard now empty and without a door was once filled with toys and shells. It was magic, pure magic.
Among visiting the various houses that have entertained my family through the years I made a point of visiting the Kidderminster Cemetery, where through trials and tribulations I managed to locate the grave of Florence Watts, Clarence Lesley Watts and Victor George Merriott the resting place of my Great Grandparents and Great Uncle. A moment steeped in quiet consideration of these relatives I know so much about but have never met; relatives that are responsible for my birth and my being. And as a grey squirrel scuttled about collecting sweet chestnuts off the floor I stood wondering about my family.
Again, this is an entry about my family and personal experiences, so I will make a conscious effort to record something that is more sight-seeing-esque with the next entry. Hope it hasn't deterred reading these memoirs though.
Iskandar.
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