18. Open Door

... being the result of an encounter with a hundred year old man.

Some years ago, I had the idea of publishing a collection of poetry that would not be for sale. The idea was that I would give away copies in exchange for a gift of something interesting. It could have been an object, an experience, a meal, a conversation, anything. It just had to be something which was of value to the donor.

I received a lot in return for those poems. I had a storytelling waistcoat knitted for me from the fabric of old library chairs, I had my portrait painted by the excellent Paul Dyson, I was shown around an ancient Battlefield by Ian Parks and much, much more.

Many of the items and experiences became the inspiration for more poetry, in fact I had promised to create poetry concerning every deal struck, and publish it in a further volume but to my shame, I didn’t keep that promise, it became one of those projects that fall by the wayside, and never get picked up.

I did create a good handful of poems from the project though, and one of my favourites came from what was perhaps the most unusual exchange of them all. An old friend, Mark Clarkson¹, offered me the chance to meet his grandfather, who was 103 years old. It was an offer that I couldn’t refuse.

It was an absolute pleasure to meet Harold - or George Harold Clough, to give him his Sunday name. To sit there in a lovely retirement home at the Western edge of West Yorkshire on a bright spring afternoon in 2016, talking to a man who was born in 1912 was an amazing experience. He was a fascinating man regardless of his great age. His strength and mobility may not have been what they once were, but his mind was sharp and intelligent. He was in the process of writing his memoirs at the time, and spoke to me at length about his experiences as a Barnsley coal miner, becoming involved with the Salvation Army, and learning to play the cornet.

Music had played a big part in Harolds life, and he had recently even played along with his old Salvation Army band at the home.

Religion had also been important to him, the practical, compassionate discipline of the Salvation Army. I have never been a religious person, but I could really appreciate how it had been a positive force in his life. The most memorable tale he had to tell was of how he had met Daisy, the love of his life whilst simultaneously finding salvation, in a chapel in Birstall near Leeds.

It was that story that inspired me to write the poem Open Door. As I said, before, I never managed to get the book of exchange inspired poems out, but I was really pleased to be able to send a copy of that poem to Harold.

A couple of years later, Mark wrote to tell me that Harold had passed away, or been promoted to glory as they say in the Salvation Army, at the grand old age of 105. He sent me a copy of the order of service from the funeral, and I was honoured to see my poem in it, and to hear that it had been read out on the day. Shortly afterwards, I received a copy of Harold’s memoirs. He had completed them, after I had visited him, and actually mentioned our meeting, and added the poem at the end.

The memoir, An Ordinary Man is still available on Amazon, and I would recommend it to anyone who is interested in social history, or Yorkshire history, or just the story of a long life well lived.

Open Door

Pit days were hard, Pit days were long, pit days were damp and dark
Pit days meant danger, risk and toil and up before the lark
Pit days meant walking miles between your house and your workplace
And more between the bottom of the shaft and the coal face
Pit days meant tiredness and dirt and aching limbs and back
And skin and hair no longer fair, but dirty, sore and black

When I worked down the pit I was not much more than just a boy
And time off work was precious time, to savour and enjoy
And one such time I found myself before an open door
And when I wandered through it, I was changed for evermore
I’d worked and lived in darkness up until that fateful night
But from that moment on things changed, I’d stepped into the light

I’d thought and talked of love and lasses many times before
But I didn’t know a thing before I walked in through that door
Through that door I met the lass who would become my wife
She caught my eye and won my heart and turned around my life
What time I had to spend from that day on, it had to be
Spent next to her, no matter where, that’s how it was for me

I’d heard my share of music too, and song before that day
But never understood how it can carry you away
Beyond that door, music took on significance for me
I learned to play, I trained my ear, listened voraciously
I joined a band, keen amateurs, devoted volunteers
I played the cornet in that band for years and years and years

I’d thought of matters spiritual before, I can’t deny
Back then we all attended church, without much thought of why
But through that door I underwent some sort of transformation
I stood up for my beliefs and I was granted my salvation
It changed me inside and outside, I was awestruck and thrilled
Living in light, with love and music, happy and fulfilled 

Pit days still hard, pit days still long, pit days still dark and damp
But a light shone in me, brighter now than any miner’s lamp
And from that time, the perils of the pit could no more harm me
And soon I left and joined the ranks of the Salvation Army
A married man, a happy man with a long life ahead
I’ve lived a long long time now, and know its been a life well led

But, reading this you may think such a life is not for you
The things I’ve done are not the sort of things you want to do.
And fair enough. I understand. To each his own I say
But I hope that love and light are there to guide you on your way
And if somehow, you feel they’re not, don’t give up, don’t despair
Open your heart, open some doors, they could be anywhere. 

1. Mark is the author of an excellent bad man book about the Yorkshire Ripper