Biography
Wallace Briggs (1943 - present).
Born into an underprivileged family that consisted of four children, a sick father (who died when Wallace was seventeen) and a mother who worked hard to nurture and provide.
His formative years were experienced in and around Durham City where, at Durham Johnston Grammar School, he was a part of the first year's 1954 intake into the new school.
The family had relocated in about '53 to Browney, a small mining village of three streets: Front, Middle and Back. As the only kid in the village to have won selection to Grammar School Wallace had to work hard at fitting in, otherwise he would have been singled out for ‘special’ attention.
Wallace first met Pat when they were eleven years old, while accompanying each other on the walk from the bus stop, down Browney Lane. They became separated only a year later when with his family, the Briggs's, moved to the new council state near Brandon Village. Their paths did not cross again until many years later. They did not immediately recognise each other but the attraction was powerful and lasts to this day.
Before marrying his Catholic girlfriend Wallace was a Student Minister in a non-conformist church but the two were deemed incompatible by the ‘elders’. Something had to give. Initially they wanted to get married when they were eighteen but parental consent was not forthcoming, so they reluctantly waited until they reached, what was then the age of majority, twenty-one.
Married in 1964, Pat and Wallace spent many happy years in the North East before employment almost took the family off to emigrate to Jo'berg, South Africa but plans were changed in the final weeks and instead the company moved them to Sussex.
After more than twenty years in Sussex, and then Hampshire, employment was again responsible for the move to beautiful rural Lancashire.
Their marriage has now survived over fifty eight years, showing that although true love may not always run smooth it can overcome and allow one to scale the heights, after first experiencing the lows. And there had been many of them.
Jimmy Crikey was born one rainy day, many years ago, during a family holiday in Great Yarmouth, to entertain his son and his new found friends for an hour or so. The story expanded over the following damp afternoons in the cramped confines of a beach tent, and more and more adventures were required to keep the children entertained.
Many years later he decided to commit to the written word. Now retired Wallace looks forward to sharing The Adventures of Jimmy Crikey with a wider audience.
These began as several short, twenty minute duration, stories but, after an encouraging review from one publisher, they were brought them together in this offering with the hope that they will bring a sense of wonder and enjoyment to another generation.
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Bad memories last a lifetime.
Do they influence what follows?
I was filling in one of the many forms required when a writer submits a book to new group and the question was asked 'when did you start writing children's stories?' My usual reply is that Jimmy Crikey was created on a family seaside holiday around 1974,
After due reflection, when I started writing a memoir, I realised that my storytelling could have started over 60 years ago - if it had been encouraged,
This is an extract from that memoir:
Eddy was approaching eleven years old and doing satisfactorily well academically but one incident would remain engraved in his memory for the rest of his life.
Returning to first-year Junior School after the summer holidays the class was asked by the attending student-teacher to write a short essay about their summer holidays. But first, the teacher requested several pupils to come to the front of the class and tell the rest of the pupils where they had been and what they had done during their holidays. Never having been away from home for longer than a day trip to the seaside Eddy listened with awe and envy to the accounts of the more fortunate children, who spoke about a week spent in Devon, a ten-day tour of the Scottish Highlands and a fortnight in North Wales. Then it was time to begin writing. Eddy’s imagination ran amock. A year or two earlier, an uncle had emigrated to Australia and Eddy could not imagine anything more exciting. He based his holiday story on an imaginary voyage in a ship transporting people and hundreds of sheep across a great ocean.
Unfortunately, the Headmaster, Mr Rolling, when marking the work did not appreciate the escapism and brought Eddy to the front of the class to reprimand him, ‘You have never been on a ship let alone sailed to Australia. It’s a whole load of lies. Isn’t it?’
Eddy could not bring himself to admit to the wholly obvious fantasy, in front of all his school friends. He denied the ridiculous charges several times. At which point Mr Rollins overcome with anger shouted out, ‘To my office, now!’
The Student-Teacher followed on and when Mr Rolling demanded a retraction of the ridiculous fairy tale Eddy could not bring himself to admit that he had allowed his imagination to completely take over. Rolling picked up a ruler and commanded, ‘Hold out your hand!’ At which point the female Student attempted to intervene pleading that it was only the work of an active, childish imagination. But Rolling would have none of that and proceed to beat Eddy’s hand, five times with the wooden ruler, while the tears rolled down the face of the Student Teacher in sympathy with those of Eddy.
Eddy returned to class with a hand that would stay bruised for several days but he never confided to anyone, and that memory would linger all his remaining lifetime. Only in retrospect would Eddy many years later wonder, how much and for how long that episode might have damaged more than just his imaginative abilities.
I never found it within myself to forgive that Headmaster, even though he drilled me academically and got me past the post into Grammar School.
Might life have been different? I'll never know. There are many sad memories but as my dad pleaded, 'do the best you can with whatever tools you are given.'
I can't explain it BUT
I'm not a philospher but, a recent TV article examined the psychological effects of music and song. It sparked in me a memory of a song which, every time I hear it, brings a tear to my eyes: ‘When You Wish Upon a Star’ – the Irving Berlin classic from Pinocchio. Why? I can only guess.
Is it that It is one of the first film musicals that gave me a childhood hope, that dreams could come true? The sadness was that they didn’t. My family remained in poverty for many more years to come, shooting stars or not. What I was not to know was that there is an element of truth in it, dreams can come true.
I met a schoolgirl friend when we were only eleven years old. Our association only lasted for a few minutes of each school day as we walked a common route homeward. The association ended when my family moved some four or five miles away and we didn’t meet again until we were seventeen. Neither immediately recognised the other until after the arrow had struck home, by which time we were committed to each other.
Life is never without its ups and downs but here we are approaching seventy eight years of age and still together in love.
But even after most of my dreams have come true that song which gave me childhood falsehood hopes still has the same effect. Even though our marriage produced two wonderful boys we were devastated to lose our eldest in 2013. You never really get over loss but our youngest went on to give us a great grandson and he went on to excel academically, until health problems interrupted his PhD studies. His recovery is coming, slowly.
My message is that dreams can come true, but it has nothing to with wishing on a star, shooting or otherwise. The same applies to Rainbows! Those dreams that come true are those you work towards, even if it takes a lifetime to come to fruition. Don’t pin your hope on the vagaries of shooting stars. Your life is likely to last much, much longer than the light from a transient star and with dedication and perseverance you can exceed your wildest dreams. Aim high.
I wish you well in all your ventures -don’t give up on yourself at the first hurdle. Everyone fails at something sometime. The important thing is to stop, take stock and readjust your sights. if you must, but whatever, keep on trying ie living.
