That Reminds Me - Yarns and Threads… Smiles to Counteract the Weary Miles

By Fred C. Cartledge

“That Reminds Me - Yarns and Threads… Smiles to Counteract the Weary Miles” is a delightful book full of amusing musings, anecdotes, and jokes for the humorist and comedy lover. A veritable laugh-riot from start to finish, this witty volume is particularly recommended for those with an appreciation of British humour and culture. Contents include: “Glow and Afterglow”, “Animation!”, “The Blue Print!”, “Glancing Backward!”, “Youth in Action”, “The Author Becomes Intimate”, “Life and Living—Part I”, “Part II”, “Conventionality”, “The Unpardonable... Dullness”, “Accent in Humour”, “The Israelite”, “Shenanigan”, “Appreciating the Scot”, etc. Many vintage books such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive. It is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with a specially-commissioned new introduction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528784177

Book preview

GLOW AND AFTERGLOW

At fifty I feel thirty

In fact I’m in my prime

My limbs are all elastic

I could commit a crime.

At sixty I feel splendid

With a siesta now and then

If you’re mixing me a cocktail

Please leave me to say when!

At seventy I’m advancing

The kids may say I’m beat

I’ll blow the undertaker

I’m hanged if I’ll retreat!

At eighty I’m reflecting

Recalling scenes of yore

Just nudge me if I go to sleep

I simply hate to snore!

At ninety I salute the kids

The glorious Dreams of Youth

It may be I can catch up

Damn! I’ve broken my eye-tooth!

I know that every breath I breathe

Is merely lent and leased

My gratitude just overflows

While Life becomes a Feast!

ANIMATION!

_____

That Reminds Me would have languished had it not been for my friends. I am not a self–starter; they supplied the pep and the perspiration!

It is inevitable that I should animate these pages to them. My tribute goes deeper than the terms I employ. The privilege and pleasure is mine as I voice my indebtedness. Eternal shame will be mine if I ever forget those veterans of the Broad Highway who were always near when the need arose; they never left me stranded!

As I proceed, my pulses quicken, memory is ablaze . . . the stream of life rises; I am agog with excitement; in fact, I’m just a kid again—doing what I did again.

I see the faces of my friends flashed on the Screen . . . the Fletchers (Jacob), the Smiths (Ernest), Grandma (Maggie), my Boss (Charles), and the countless hosts who never assess their own worth. The Mark Twains are there . . . the Dan Lenos . . . the Fred Kitchens . . . the Charlie Chaplins and George Formbys—and all the other laughter–makers, known and unknown . . . sung and unsung . . . who blazed the trail with violet rays and taught a miserable blighter like myself how to lift up his heart and say Thank you.

The term dedication savours of a dirge; I prefer a doxology. An Epigram is more than an Epitaph. The time to attend a funeral is before it happens; send your flowers to the living; don your glad rags as you service yourself in the process.

The world prefers dry humour to a wet–weekend . . . the Davids and Isaiahs to the Jonahs and the Jeremiahs.

I would like to see a dictionary, composed only of the Glad, the Glowing, the Bright and Breezy terms. Tell me not in mournful numbers!

Life is not a ramp; it is a romp . . . a rising stream of resurrection flooding the world with smiles—turning Night into Day, Fear into Faith, Hate into Friendship, Mountains into Molehills . . . and Setbacks into Stepping–Stones. The Heritage of Spirit is personal; it is yours and mine! You may not own a rod of land . . but the landscape is yours as you absorb and adequately use it!

The physical outline may fade, but there is something eternal in the psychic glow of friendship, which Age cannot wither or custom stale.

Here’s then to Friendship—Faith—Courage and Action . . . the threads that keep us whole as we travel the Broad Highway and discover the shining track as we create it in the fields of Interchange and Companionship . . . realising the salient reality that the natural is the Symbol of the Spiritual . . . that Earth is crammed with Heaven . . . as God speaks His mind to you and I in Sky and Sea and Sunrise!

THE BLUE PRINT!

____

I smile as I write; the joke is on those who read what I relate—I sit in the grandstand and see the procession . . . the pageant of the past, and the present.

I see the Mighty Men of Valour and the great workers of my early days; the Liberators, the Reformers, the Artists, the Poets, the Song Writers, the Literary Giants. I see also the Pharisee, the Publican and the Sinner; the misery . . . the stupidity . . . the slavery . . the darkness. All are there. I see the mask and the masquerade. I see what is . . . and what might have been, if the banner cf fraternity and goodwill had been lifted with the same urgency as the red rag of hate. I salute the Bunyans, the Livingstones, the Lincolns, the Grace Darlings, the Joans of Arc and the heroic hosts, who held the torch and sent a gleam to cut the gloom. Neither can I ever forget the radiant glow of the Star of Bethlehem in its perfect setting of sublime service and sacrifice. What might have been can still become when we are willing to pay the price.

Should I be charged with undue frivolity in stating that the greatest sorrow can be subdued, I know what I am talking about. I have felt the pressure of the tough spots of Life; I have known poverty and pain, but I have come to realise that the Structure of the spirit is built to surmount every challenge and never to call a halt in the onward march of freedom of thought and expression of the inward impulses that enable us to survive the severest storm.

"Speaking of Blue-Prints . . . I consider the greatest paradox in the world is the failure of Nations and Individuals to Blue-Print themselves in the ethical and intellectual realm! We blue-print Ideas, Buildings, Machinery and Weapons of Warfare; everything is pinpointed before production starts. A Blue-Print is the Alpha of progress.

Here’s the tragedy:—As a nation we have immense natural resources; we have also the guts and the gumption—yet we fail to map—define, co-ordinate and harness all these forms of wealth, to serve the supreme objective! Even Educationists and Politicians never get down to the real business of treating the basic cause:—Thought! We still prefer to muddle thro’ . . . in spite of conditions which become more fiercely competitive as the years pass. When the Nation co-partners Industry, then Industry will become what it is, potentially, the life-blcod of the Nation; Chancellors and Universities and Civil Service would disintegrate . . . were it not for Industry; yet Industry is still on a go-as-you-please basis, while individual initiative shoulders the burden.

The individual comes next. Imagine a Commando parachuting behind the enemy lines without knowing how, when, where and why! The old song:—I don’t know where I’m going, but when I get there I’ll be glad—summarises and pin-points the mind of the individual of to-day. How many of us map ourselves—define our programme—decide our potential (natural ability) before we start Building a Career. Square pegs in round holes? What on earth do you expect. Yes, the Blue Print of the you within yourself is vital. Parliament is but the mind of the individual—multiplied—wherefore!

Excuse the digression on the ground of Inexperience. I am not yet seventy and I plead in extenuation:—A first offence.

My misdemeanour must now be stated . . . I was retired, (what a farce). I then decided to strike a new path . . create new interests. I would become an author. For fifty years I have been gathering copy unconsciously, so I started in with a book on life and living. I hold no official badge or diploma . . . Oxford and Cambridge knew me not. My education has been more primitive than primary; the result is secondary. I did once secure a third class certificate for attendance at a Board School at the age of ten, which reveals what influence can accomplish. Sez I to myself—modestly—there’s always a chance for a chap with a wee bit courage . . . and average guts and gumption. Officially—I left school at the age of twelve; during that time it was hit or miss’; actually, I’ve been at school ever since, and am hoping to get my matric during the next twenty years. I am, therefore, a rank outsider," but everybody has a sporting chance; the game’s always yours if you’re game! I am assured there is always room for one sane man in each Community . . . sez I to myself—sotto voce!

Industry and Achievement, like Time, marches on. To feature the Past:—the incandescent mantle eased the glare of the untempered flare of the gas jet . . . an alternative to the stench of the oil-lamp. Then Edison laid his tribute at our feet. . . flooded the world with an electric glow. Horses were the chief form of transit . . apart from the invention of George Stephenson; bicycles were in the Kindergarten stage and motor-cars were a faint speck on the horizon. Pneumatic tyres were in the solid stage; roads were bad and we absorbed the shocks in our anatomy!

Bathrooms were a luxury . . . a weekly tub by the fire was an event. In spite of it all we smiled . . . and lived! The Cinema was unborn and a day at the seaside was an annual event . . . usually associated with the Sunday School trip. Sweets were few . . . humbugs . . . white pennets (peppermints), and butterscotch. We felt prosperous with a penny; a half-penny was not to be sneezed at; twopence gave us a superior complex!

I remember standing outside a shop with my finger holding my penny down in my pocket (for fear I lost it). . . . I surveyed the wares (and the world). . . and felt I could purchase what I liked. I took my time over it; I really sampled everything in the shop-window (in imagination) and would often walk away with the penny unspent; feeling I still held the reins of potential power. . . . and that I was the master of my fate.

Since then . . . life has moved; much that spells comfort and ease and pleasure has arrived. If a sense of proportion . . . of appreciation . . . has kept pace . . . well and good. Appreciation usually comes through contrast. A bit of the rough stuff is necessary to help us value the smooth.

To conclude that Life was drab and dull is to misinterpret; fifty years ago, it was anything but . . . in spite of stern problems and meagre Cash. The real fear was to be out-of-work. There were then no state-pensions or out-of-work pay. The workers were not even indexed; you took your chance! To pick and choose was the last thing we thought of. We had no rights except those we could win and hold. Our entertainments were largely home-made on the premises, and on the spur of the moment. Getting into mischief . . . practical jokes gave a real fillip to life; I still hear the reverberations of roars of laughter when we did it on somebody else. We could take it when it came to our turn; we never whined and that seems to summarise the Britain which produced the lads who were the real Spitfires when the Crisis came.

Here, then, is your reward for Patience!

Good Evening, Everybody . . . and that goes for friends and enemies alike!

All sorts and conditions are within my orbit; . . . I am always at home with the Common man; we live under the same roof!

I fraternise with the fat or the lean; with the tall and the small; with the