10 Life Lessons. Number 4.

Dad kept Pigeons.

At the bottom of our tiny garden was a Pigeon Loft. Dad raced them, as did my Grandad and my Uncle George. Pigeon racing was popular in the 1960s. Every town had a Pigeon Club. Dad was a member of the Dagenham one. He won a few trophies, all displayed proudly on his most prized possession. His Piano.

Let me tell you about His Piano. Three years before I arrived on this earth, my sister was born. Mum told Dad to go out and buy a baby's bath. But with the few shillings he had for the bath burning a hole in his jacket pocket, he just happened to stop at a local music shop called Berrys. There in the window was a beautiful, Mahogany, upright, steel-framed Piano. This was at a time when every family had a Piano. His Mum and Dad, along with all his Aunts and Uncles, had a Piano. Everyone could play, not well, but enough to have a good old knees up and a sing-song at Birthdays and Christmas.

So the shillings were used as a deposit and the rest was put on the never, never.

Mum didn’t get her baby's bath, and my sister was washed in the sink, but two days later, the most beautiful piece of furniture was delivered. His Piano.

We were never allowed to touch it or put anything on it. If we wanted to “have a go” we had to wash our hands first and were supervised at all times. This wasn’t a toy, this was His Piano.

He sat and played that thing for hours. He couldn’t read music, just played by ear. “Pick a song, any song”, he’d say to Mum. She’d think for a moment and then come out with something that she liked. Within minutes he’d be playing it ( not always in tune) and she’d be singing along.

His style was a mixture of Mrs Mills and Chas and Dave with a bit of Les Dawson thrown in for good measure!

But back to the Pigeons.

Dad worked at Fords, and once again they were on strike. Money was tight. I remember him sitting down one evening with a pen and paper. He was working out the cost of keeping Pigeons. There was the feed, the fuel needed for travelling ( Northampton was a regular drop-off point), train fare, ( for further away places, Pigeons were loaded onto trains and then released in Yorkshire or Lancashire), the cost of Club Membership, the upkeep of the Loft ( painted every year, sawdust and bedding for the nesting boxes). The figures just didn’t add up.

And just like that, it was over. His best racers were sold for breeding, but the majority he had to kill himself. Because you can’t just let them fly away, racing Pigeons will always return. The loft came down and Dad concentrated on making the garden look nice for Mum. Flower beds, a bit of crazy paving so they could sit out and enjoy the sunshine without Pigeon shit raining down on them and a safe place for us kids to play.

1965 was coming to a close and 1966 was just around the corner. The summer had gone and I was moving up into the juniors. No more Infants school for me. I was moving upwards. Literally. The infants were on the ground floor of our old Victorian School and the Juniors were on the top floor. So when you moved on you moved up. Up four flights of stairs.

Challenge accepted.

Life Lesson Number 4. If it's not working. Get rid of it and move on.