Open Writing

I saw the youth of the sixties. The Jesus Christ’s, the Flower People, the Hippies, the pot Smokers. I knew they were trying to say something.

I recognised the message they were trying to give to us.

After all, I too had been young once and felt the powerful need for justice, reform, and love of one's fellow man. At that time I believed we, the youth of the day, could change the apathy of society. This is a part of youth, as essential as growing and loving.

It will always be there in every generation, trying to raise its voice above the sound of indifference.

My eldest son was one of these. He was a hippie. He wore the sandals, the beads, the Afghan sheepskin embroidered coat. His hair was long and he sometimes had a beard. He was tall, and so thin. I worried about him. His bright red electric guitar was with him all the time. It was a present from us, for having done so well at high school.

That was the time of the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan...

Like many parents of that generation, we worried about our son. So many young people were dying of drug overdoses, leaving parents to mourn and ask the same questions.

Where did we go wrong? What did we do? What didn’t we do? How could it happen?

We were the lucky ones. Our children grew up. Our eldest son got a degree, married Liz and had two sons, Gabriel and Owen.

Now I stand here, in a little old church, in Crediton , Devon , England.

The daffodils are just beginning to open their golden trumpets, ready to sing the praises of spring.

The sun is shining but there is no warmth. It is the month of February.

I had left behind the hot sunshine of the Gold Coast in Australia to be present at the burial service for my eighteen- year-old grandson, Gabriel.

My world had suddenly changed, when I heard the dreadful news that Gabriel was dead.

A tragic end to a young life full of promise

He had was killed in a car crash with three of his friends.

One was his girl friend. All were students at Exeter College.

I never thought of Gabriel with a girl friend. It saddened me to realise he was of an age when he would have a girl friend. When you live far away and are not part of their daily lives it is hard to accept how fast children grow up.

One of the other young men was driving. This gave me some comfort, knowing that Gabriel was not responsible in any way for the death of his young friends.

Small consolation, yet it was something.

Finding something positive to cling to in such a tragic situation allowed me the chance to think of former times.
I was able to recall memories of years when Gabriel was a little boy. Precocious, highly intelligent, cheeky and loveable.

So many thoughts, so many happy memories flooded back. I saw him as he was then.

I tried not to cry. My son had asked me to be brave.

I looked around the church. My three-year-old granddaughter Miriam held on to my hand. Her mother, my daughter, stood silently beside her husband who was holding their youngest in his arms.

Miriam was still; not a movement, not a sound. So small. Only three years of age, and yet I knew she understood. She too was trying to be brave.

Three quarters of the church was taken up by young people dressed in black

They wore black not because it was a sign of mourning. This was their fashion. Heavy, black jumpers, black thick-soled boots, thick black stockings. Some relieved the black with hair streaked in purple and orange.

It saddened me, to see lovely girls who had spoiled their young bodies with ugly tattoos, displayed with obvious pride.

The boys were dressed in a similar uniform. Black jumpers with sleeves so long that they covered their hands. Holes deliberately made so that they could stick their fingers through the ends of the sleeves. It was the fashion.

These were children, of parents who were in their teens during the sixties.

Again, I could hear the cries of protest. The same voices I had heard then.

They were there again trying to say something, hoping we would listen.

The message was the same. The only difference was the style of dress and the idols they now followed..

Some heads were shaven. Long hair was now unacceptable. All seemed to wear earrings, and some had rings in their nostrils. Body piercing and tattoos were also the ashion.

All of this was done to be noticed. Well that was the way I saw it

I could hear them saying, "Look at us, we are different. Take note of us and what we are trying to say. Please listen to us.''

Gone now the hippies of the Sixties, Now we have the New Age Travellers.

As I looked around the church and was suddenly aware of their grief. In that moment I felt I also knew my grandson better.

Seeing his friends grieving, I could see that he was loved by them, and I was able to feel sad for them too.

I realised at that time that whatever differences we may have in our ages, our dress, the way we think, whatever we may believe, we all share grief in the same way when tragedy hits us.

We all cry, but our crying can never be compared to the crying of parents for a dead child..

My thoughts turned to Owen and I wondered how he would cope without his older brother. I looked at him and saw that he too, was trying to be brave.

Poor Owen!

A young man played a guitar and a girl sang. I suppose they were songs that Gabriel liked and would have chosen.

Amongst them was a Beatles song. I remembered those days of the Beatles, when our home was filled with the constant sound of their music . It brought back memories.

As I looked at my grandson's coffin, in sadness, I thought of the dreadful suffering that my son and his wife were going through

Life would never be the same again for them. I cried for them, I could not be brave any longer .

I cried for myself and for all of us, and how our lives would be changed forever.

And I felt sad that I had not known Gabriel better.

I left England when he was six years old, returning every few years to visit.

One birthday I shared with him was his eleventh. He grew to be a tall, handsome boy, with a highly intelligent mind.

When he was sixteen I had letters from Liz his mother telling me that he had started a crèche for the students' children, and was Vice President of The Students Union. at his college.

For one so young he had a conscience and was trying to make the world a better place, just as his mother and his father had hoped to do in the Sixties.

That was when they were young and believed 'All we need is love'.

I had made so many plans for a day when Gabriel would visit me. I would show him Australia's beautiful beaches, the lush green hinterland., our rain forests.

He would know the heat of the hot Australian sun. I would enjoy watching him swim and surf.

This would be our time to get to know each other as friends, to share our thoughts and talk as adults.

Those were my hopes and dreams. Suddenly they had all been taken away.

The last time I saw Gabriel was when he waved me goodbye at Exeter railway station.
At that time I looked at him and felt sad. He looked so scruffy, though he was very tall and handsome.

Liz said his jumper was new, but he had torn it deliberately. His track shoes were in ribbons.

I knew she was embarrassed and I understood how she felt.. I had spoken to her the day before as she confided that she was worried about Gabriel.

I told her not to worry

Easy for me to talk.

But I understood. I had felt the same way years ago when my son got on the same bus with me, with his long hair, a beaded band round his forehead, a smelly sheepskin coat, sandals and no socks, all this on a cold winter's day.

I hoped he would not acknowledge me as I was embarrassed but he did and I knew he did it deliberately as he had a twinkle in his eye.

Later such things as what he wore and the way he looked became unimportant to me.
Considering the drug scene, which was taking so many young lives then, it was enough that he was alive.

I told Lis to try to accept Gabriel as he was, even though it may be difficult.

My thoughts returned to the day when he kissed me and waved goodbye. I saw him now, as my train left the station. I longed so much for him to be here, wearing his torn jumper with his old sneakers and his scruffy appearance.

Instead he was in this lovely old church, lying in his coffin.

I tell myself now that maybe he is in a better place, where the injustices of life do not exist.

He has been spared hearing the loud voice of youth, with so much to say, being gradually muffled by society, with it’s pressure to conform.

He will never again hear those young voices expressing their dreams and hopes, speaking out loud in protest
But at least he will be spared the knowledge and realisation that those voices change, until one day they become the feeble voices of the old. Voices asking where did all our dreams go? What happened to all our hopes, and all our plans for a better world? How could such a passionate need for justice die? Where did all the loving go?

Older, but maybe a little wiser, we ask these questions, knowing that life has not really taught us the answers.

Maybe my grandson will return when the world is a better place.

When love, compassion, and tolerance flow and there is no more need for protests. When there is peace. The sort of world he would have wished for. A peace we all hope to see.

I have to think this way in order to find consolation and accept he is not here any more.

It is too painful for me to believe he has gone forever.