What it means to be a boy

Cover picture by Hengki Koentjoro

I was given a new book - a birthday present from MYD - and couldn't put it down. A beautifully written though somewhat strange story a bit like although less substantial than Kafka on the Shore. The author pulls images from all manner of and random sources and mixes them all together into the mind of a seven year old boy, recounted when he is middle aged and his memory has become sketchy. And then, last evening we watched the new Netflix Mowgli. One cannot help comparing it with Favreau's Jungle Book or to Kipling's original stories but we enjoyed it none the less. The common theme is what it means to be a boy. I too have largely forgotten that richest part of my life story but small episodes come to my remembrance every so often - like watching the world go by perched on a dangerously rusty corrugated iron roof in blatant defiance of the Adults, or tinkering with ancient radio sets in my workshop in the Top Garden and the joy of finding that my recently constructed oscilloscope actually worked, or loitering in Drove Lane praying fervently that one or other of my boyhood would-be sweethearts would actually like me too. Nothing like as exciting as Mowgli.

Wanna photo?

The appointed place

There were two girls (in particular) who attended our church "adventurers club" meetings, back when I was a teenager. One, 'S', a sensible girl, somewhat matronly. The other 'C' with an impish face. I thought I liked 'C'. I suppose I thought I might love her. But she was more worldly wise than I and returned my leers with "wanna photo?" - I too nervous to reply in the affirmative. Only later did I realise that it was only her face I liked - herself I did not know at all.

Not knowing how else to force the issue, I wrote her a letter inviting her to meet me, one evening, in Drove Lane. For her it was a short walk from her council estate home. For me it was several miles. With some trepidation I set off - I cannot remember what story I told my parents to mitigate my absence - and was somewhat surprised to meet 'S' at the appointed place. She came bearing a negative message from 'C' - my plan had been spilled and thankfully nothing more came of it. But to this day I have wondered what might have happened. What consequences was I eternally saved from by dear 'S' who, of the pair, was much more worthy of love?

That was long before 'J' loomed on my horizon, a more suitable girl who I had much more deeply rooted affection for. For whom I would spend long hours (or so it seemed) in prayerful agony. Mini skirts were "in" and she had the most awesome legs. And 'J' did have good credentials - her father was one of the church elders, her mother spread the best young-people's-meeting food and besides 'J' herself made the most delicious cheese straws. But it was not to be. For which I also thank God, otherwise I would not be were I am today blessed with a lifelong companion and lover who makes up for my many lacks and encourages me, and four most wonderful children each so gifted and blessed of whom I am unworthy.