Cover

 

© Nifty at 50, Anthony A. Newman 2022

 

Also by Anthony A. Newman

 

The Underworld

The Dark Horse

An Averagely Mundane Life

 

Publisher: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Implerstraße 24
81371 Munich
Germany

 

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Preface

I try to never look forward. I mean, yes to tomorrow, to next week, to the next holiday. I’m saying, I never look forward in life. It’s an unchartered journey, largely unknown and deeply mysterious. Full of darkness, ruts in the road, uncertainty and probably also perilous in nature. Its mere prediction, and with it, all the possible thoughts that could occur, fill me with dread and trepidation of what may yet come next. Yet, it’s a road we are all destined to travel; regardless if we are all gleefully wanting to avoid it or not.

Thankfully I don’t need to embark into the future too often. Why should I, when my past has been, well mostly colourful, and my present is pretty darn fine and alright also!

Life’s never all been easy; in fact, why should it be? It’s a challenge, a puzzle, a chance to emit at times every emotion in a single minute. It keeps us enthralled, entertained, seemingly wanting more, and is a constant giver, but also at times a painful taker.

Life is a highway, and sometimes we travel it at a million miles an hour, and at other moments it meanders fairly pedestrian. It’s what propels us; the thought of a new adventure, a new occasion, or a new moment is what makes the journey a constant travelogue to our lives with continued momentum.

It’s astounding to me that this journey has taken me so far half a century to unravel itself. Even writing that just sent a chill down my back. Half a century…. holey moley! Where the bloody heck have all those years gone, I wonder to myself?

It’s easy for me to conjure up a memory, several memories, and with it so many glorious defining moments in my life. Yet, to think of fifty years of all these such memories seems especially an arduous task. Thank heavens for the likes of Kodak and for the ability to record our lives in photo and film.

Over the last few months I have been recounting memories of when I was young, thoughts that have forever stayed with me; yet are deep in my mind and rarely only visited; until now. I recall the memories of my family as they were back then, and, of course, my younger self. I think of the environment I lived in and the people who filled my days, as well as my experiences with them. I often smile looking back, for I had little really to ever feel down.

I smile for the person I was, and largely still am; although like everything, things have changed, and none more so than especially people.

I often think of the moments that made an indelible impact on me. The times in my life that gave me a reason to feel happy and content and joyful. There were some moments which are also painfully sad, desperately so, yet everything I have ever been through, good or bad, now I feel defines me.

You don’t get to be fifty without suffering a few grazes, bruises and blemishes along the way. As time moves on, you don’t forget about them, but you just grass over them like moss would sometimes surround a patio. You know it’s there, but life is warts and all, and even though few like moss to ever grow, you know it’s just part of the bigger garden of your life that we are all part of.

Like everybody, I have met some incredible people. People who have shaped my life and some who have left an undeniable mark on my soul. I am grateful for knowing them, for they have forever enriched me as a person. I have fed off their brilliance, been warmed by their love, benefitted from their support, regaled in their kindness, and this semi-centurion never takes any of all that for granted. Ever.

 

If I could sum my life up in just one word, it would definitely be, Luck.

 

How lucky I have been to have lived a life where I have enjoyed being part of the picture. How lucky I have been to have become the foreground in people’s lives, as well as the backdrop to many others. What luck it has been to have had parents who are still married and who still love each other, and who have given me, and others, more love than you couldn’t think was humanly possible to give. What luck it has been to have had the good fortune to have travelled the world, been to over eighty countries, and witnessed the wonder and heartbreak this planet spins within. What luck I have found in a career that has enabled me to live the life I love. What luck it is, that I realise that everything I have I have for a reason and that I never take any of it for granted. What luck it is to have a son who looks up to me and admires what I have achieved. What luck it is to know that all I have strived for all my life, is something that I realise is a product of both my successes, as well as, at times, my failures. What luck it is to have met and married a woman, who I not only adore but respect and that we are so compatible with each other. What luck that I still have my health, when I look around me and realise that others have sadly lost theirs.

I have lived nothing but a lucky life, and as I have gotten older, so has my increase in this awareness also grown with me.

I don’t want to give you the impression that I have lived in this rose-coloured utopia forever; neither do I want to paint a picture that my life has been dystopian either. There is no sugar-coated crispness to any life all the time, and that for sure includes my own.

You see, I believe that to appreciate true happiness, one must previously have felt deep and resounding pain. Despite this overwhelming luck I have mentioned, I have also been to some dark places; but thankfully, and again luckily, not for too long or indeed, too often.

I just want you to know as I put my hand on my heart and say, that this is an honest account of my first fifty years. It's humorous and, to some revealing. I hope you enjoy it.

So please, sit back, relax and read the picture of my life which contains many colours, and fortunately, most of them have been bright and fairly spectacular at times.

 

 

Anthony A. Newman

Andrew Anthony Haire

Jersey, 2022

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Childhood till First Job

  I wouldn’t call it a farm; although we did have chickens and before that pigs. We also grew quite a lot of fruit and vegetables; some of which were sold to hotels, especially in the summer months when tourists were plentiful on the island.

  I lived in a country setting, in a far-flung corner of St. Brelade in south-west Jersey. My playground started off in the garden and over time increased to become literally a whole valley. Being an only child, my imagination, as well as my adventures would usually extend out as far as the confines of our own property, and often beyond that.

 My parents had built an extension, from the main house in which my grandparents and uncle lived. It was idyllic and I remember those times with much fondness. It was a little like the TV program 'The Walton's' just without far fewer children.

  My father was an accountant when I was born. He worked in an office at a textile factory, although he originally came to Jersey as a professional at La Moye Golf Club where he taught keen wannabe’s the laws and rules of the game. My father often worked long hours, and eventually, when he left the factory, he gained employment in banking where he steadily made his way up the managerial ranks.

  My earliest recollections of my country home were of playing outside making dens, or making handmade mucky mud pies on the garden wall. Sometimes my memories would be of my cousin, Martin, who lived with us for an extended time when I was younger, and more often than not we would get up to no end of mischief. One time he decided that he wanted to climb high up a ladder and onto the rusty top of a large water tank that was situated at the gable end of my grandparent's house. If his weight wouldn't hold the rusty aging tank lid, I feel the old feeble tap wouldn’t have been quick enough to have drained the water out, and therefore the chances of anyone being able to rescue him from certain drowning right there and then would have been more than likely.

  Around the same time, maybe who knows even the same day, and with my cousin narrowly dodging a watery end, we decided to venture out from the familiarity around the home and go for a bit of a walk. It must have been a warm time of the year, the summer holidays probably. My cousin and I were always up to no good, seeking out new places to go and finding stupid things to do like setting fire to ant's nests or having water fights in the brock which was situated at the front of my house.

On this one particular day, we decided to walk up to a nearby hotel swimming pool, which was just off the railway walk from where I lived. I can still see the water; even now, and the endless blue sky above reflecting in its ripples on the surface of the pool. My cousin dared me to jump in, and never being one to refuse a dare, especially back then, I instantly thought of doing it without truly knowing the depth of the water, and also without having the ability to yet swim. As I geared up to begin my foolhardy descent into the pool, I suddenly heard someone behind me shout ‘Stop!’ I quickly turned around to discover my grandfather red-faced and alarmed at what I was about to do. I never doubt it now, but he probably did save my life that day if he wouldn’t have been watching and following us. The water would have been far deeper than I had expected and my non-swimming young self would have likely been dragged under the surface, leaving me struggling to have been rescued from what would undoubtedly have been my watery end.  So there you go, both my cousin and I are fortunate to have survived our young lives, and as I have said, it was probably on that very same day.

At that time, I was about 3 or 4, and my grandfather often played a pivotal role in my early years. He was, as I remember, an incredibly wonderful man who I truly didn't realise how much so at the time. He always had an answer and a solution and a caring opinion and being retired and in his late sixties, he seemed to always have time for me. I, even now, when I think of him, all these years later, find myself still well up with emotion. You see, his sudden death and our families' subsequent loss several years later was a tragedy I never knew or realised would hit me as hard as it did. My perfect utopian life up till then had changed in a literal heartbeat of a moment. Part of my loss was made worse by my guilt; for being a stupid and immature boy back then; I often taunted him, like for instance I once locked him in a wood shed for over an hour, and probably for no apparent reason other than me being a mischievous dickhead. I would also occasionally throw stones at him, not to hurt him or even hit him, but just to get a reaction from him. I admit freely now, I was wicked at times to him, and of course, he got angry with me, who wouldn't, but yet I knew I also loved him so much and with everything my young bones and spirit had back then. He was a true father figure to me and was something in which I had never realised until that day in August 1984 when he unexpectedly had a severe stroke and died early one morning. Noticing something stupid like the wellington boot prints he had made the day before his death in a freshly dug potato patch actually haunted me for several years after, as did his actual death itself, and which I never got complete grips over.

  My everlasting love for him is almost surpassed by the contempt in me for what I did to him. I know he loved me; god knows why, but I also know I was at times a complete shit to him. I have wished so much and for so long to be able to be given the chance to just have one more precious moment to be with him and to be able for me to say 'sorry Papa'.

  Apart from my guilt, I also truly missed him because he was so clever and I believe he died way too young in my life, and actually way too young in his; he was only 76. He was French by birth, and interested in foreign countries, geography in particular, as well as languages; two things I am immensely fond of myself now. It was he, my Papa, who planted those seeds in me that made me inquisitive enough to learn about the world, as well as the cultures and languages within it. I believe it was he who steered me on a path, the same path I have now travelled for half a century.

  I often wonder, if he would have lived, till I had at least left school; you see he died when I was eight, what sort of man would I have become? I could have learned so much more from him, but as I got older, I realise that what I did learn from him, was a good starting point to begin from.

  With my father working hard to keep our family financially running, and my mother working equally hard to keep the family running, my uncle stepped in and became another surrogate father in a way. He lived next door to my house, which he shared now with his mother; my gran. He worked hard by day at the nearby desalination plant, but when he came home he immediately tended his seasonal crops of vegetables which he laboriously slaved over most evenings. I never got too involved with the crops he lovingly grew, but I always did love watering them. In the summer months, with the crops flourishing, and the water being less abundant, we needed to extract this precious resource from a nearby spring. A lengthy hose reel would extend from a water pump and I would help him water the crops of mainly runner beans, tomatoes, and potatoes most evenings. There was, in all truth, no end to the range of crops my uncle, as well as, to a lesser extent my father was prepared and able to grow. One of the many lucrative plants my uncle grew and sold was watercress. At the time on the island, there were only two growers of the peppery plant, and my grandfather and later my Uncle not surprisingly cashed in on this specialised, and certainly limited, commodity.

  We also had chickens. In fact, many chickens over the years, and we always had the freshest and yellowest of eggs you can imagine. Many of our chickens over time were either killed by polecats or ferrets which would busily dig under the wire of their enclosure overnight. Seeing the heartbreak in my grandfather's eyes after he had discovered twenty-five birds killed in one night was truly sad to witness, yet after he passed away we continued to have them, but we were better prepared and closed the coops in which they slept in at night ourselves preventing anything from causing further losses.

  Those earliest memories of my home, in that quiet valley, in the isolated rural corner in the south-west of the island of Jersey were incredible to me. Some of my happiest times growing up were with my parents, my grandparents, and my uncle. It was to me simply idyllic; some would say peaceful or even boring, but I knew from my very first memories and recollections, that life where I lived, was just so bloody wonderful and special.

  My nursery school, was immediately followed then by my primary school, I must confess I didn’t, especially like going. I longed to be at home, watching the rabbits run around the fields, feeding the chickens, or still making those mud pies on the garden wall. School to me was none of those things, but when I did get home every afternoon, I made the most of doing what I had missed all day. Although over time, maybe some years later, something at school did start to become appealing to me. Girls!    

  Like a baby bird would know how to instinctively fly, my natural skill-set when it came to girls, was absolutely zilch. Nada. Zero. Nil. The problem I had, in fact throughout my entire early years, was that I was painfully shy. I didn’t have the guts, yet I did have the intent, to want, at least to go up to a girl and start to make some form of conversation with them. The problem was I just couldn’t; something held me back like an invisible arm from even getting close to a girl. My cousin was a boy. All my friends were boys, and slowly over time, I started to realise that not all girls were boring, stupid, scary, or too formidable, yet I still found myself never quite having enough courage or resilience to even approach any of them too often, in fear I would look out of my depth.

  Things changed however quite suddenly one day in February. I got to school one morning, as usual, and after taking off my jacket and gloves, as winters were really cold and snowy back then in the late seventies, I walked over to my school desk to discover something unusual; three individual envelopes all addressed to me in what appeared to be different hand-writing. I remember standing confused for a second, looking at each in turn, before slowly becoming aware and what they were and why they lying on my desk. I looked around, some people seemed occupied in opening similar envelopes, so of course, I promptly started opening mine. They were Valentine's Day cards, hand-made and written with love hearts and in felt-tip colours. I was taken aback; maybe even flabbergasted, who knows? Had I really received three genuine Valentine's Day cards from actual girls, I wondered? I had more than an idea of who two of the cards were possibly from, but the third, I never did find out the origins of – even to this day. It didn’t really matter because the two I strongly suspected of sending me a card I had sent one, anonymously of course, in return. In fact, I think I sent seven Valentine's cards from what I remember, no mean feat considering there were only twelve girls in my class at the time, and to add to the fact I was painfully shy; it was a miracle I had sent out any.

  So with the knowledge that three girls had sent me a card, it gave me this sudden propulsion to want to launch myself, slowly at first admittedly, into the unknown world of girls.

  Most of my early attempts to blast off into these far-flung reaches, seeking out these mysterious and illusive creatures, either blew up on the launch pad or nose-dived shortly after take-off. My skills needed adapting just as much as my shyness needed adjusting. After several unsuccessful attempts I finally got the chance to see and marvel at these beautifully wondrous species up, and at times, close proximity. They were to me an extraordinary discovery!

  Once I started to act more coolly in front of these, once elusive enigmas, and not quickly melt like a Cornetto on a summer’s day, I soon got myself a girlfriend. It was nothing serious, of course not, I was only about nine, but she was one of the only such girls I had at primary school who I could properly call a girlfriend. There were over time, other girls I was particularly interested in, but sadly my attempts to get them to notice me, or even be attracted to me, other than if I possibly torched my hair on fire, went sadly unseen.

  Primary school, particularly going through the government system was, to me, a breeze. It was largely fun, and unchallenging and it was at this time, when I was nine and ten, that another boy in my class, incidentally by the name of Andrew also, turned up to school with similar intent and attitude to me. We endlessly wanted to know what could we get away with, laugh about or get a joke from each day. We bounced off each other like two fools who had little care or regard for anything serious. 

  I remember one such afternoon, we had a music lesson, and the teacher, a middle-aged man by the name of Mr. Lobb, was happily at first showing us how to play the recorder. Each of us tried in turn to

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 03.10.2022
ISBN: 978-3-7554-2211-2

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Widmung:
Wow... really!!! Have I actually already got to the age of 50? Where has the time flown by? This book charters my, so far amazing life. I talk about my good times and bad and which contains a few real truths and with that comes to include some honesty, but thankfully it's also about the happier moments and funnier times.