Johnny and Enid, an unlikely pair...

‘It is impossible to define precisely what the soul is. Definition is an intellectual enterprise anyway; the soul prefers to imagine.’ Thomas Moore, Care of the Soul

I may have mentioned this before, dear reader, but I grew up in a book-free household. Actually, I lie. We had three books, all of them stashed under the tea-towels in the linen press: A hardback full-colour pictorial concerning Queen Elizabeth II (which I pored over), What Bird is That? (utterly dull) and a pocket dictionary. My three baby-boomer brothers had all left home by the time I was eight, taking whatever novels they may have had for matriculation (To Sir With Love, Lord of the Flies) with them. So what does an ‘only’ child with a burning desire for stories do in a home where reading is frowned upon as ‘time-wasting’? Where did I find my beloved stories? Well, there was my gorgeous grade one teacher (think purple miniskirts, frosted lipstick, white boots) who always read aloud to the class (I had an epiphany during my first encounter with The Magic Wishing Chair, truly I did, when I realised that other people aka Enid were putting their imaginations to Great Use). I was occasionally given books (ie Enid Blyton) from school friends, and on rare occasions I was allowed to visit the town library. Aside from that, I found stories on the record player, through Johnny Cash to be precise. I played my father’s 33 1/3 records over and over. I had three favourites—Folsom Prison Blues, Long Black Veil, and The Streets of Laredo, of which Laredo was my absolute heartrending, hand wringing TOP. As a fervent eight year old this ballad fuelled my fascination with death and confirmed my affinity with melodrama. ‘Put bunches of roses all over my coffin, roses to deaden the clods as they fall’... I knew all the words, and even though at first I did not understand them, through their poetry and through Cash’s haunting music, I was able to grasp their sentiment at a level much deeper than mind. Of course, at some point I do remember looking up ‘sods’ in the dictionary. What was sod and why did they ‘lay it o’er’ the poor dead cowboy? That was what I needed to know. And who was this other, this person ‘more dear than a sister’? Through the songs of Johnny Cash I had my first encounter with poetry; and in seeking to understand his lyrics, my first attempt at textual analysis. Long Black Veil had a similar effect on me and would prove to be the perfect primer for Wuthering Heights; ‘she visits my grave, when the night winds wail...

One should never underestimate children; never doubt their ability to grapple with language and concepts they do not understand for in so doing they grow both intellectually and emotionally. Yes, children use stories to help them understand the world. But it is so much more than that. They also depend on stories (sad, funny, ridiculous, spooky, disgusting and, dare I say, politically incorrect) to inspire them and to feed and honour their souls. In my writing I never try to educate or moralise. I do, however, try to do what Johnny Cash and Enid Blyton did for me, inspire and delight. I intend to keep doing it too— perhaps even until they lay the sod o’er me. How utterly romantic would that be? xx