Where Does The Time Go

A Memory of Farndon.

This is the church where my 17 year old son was christened. This is also the church where I spent most of my childhood. From about the age of 10, my friends and I would go grave rubbing. We actually spent more time cleaning the old graves with an old twig and reading about who was in there. As we got older, about 13-ish, we would go into the graveyard for a sneaky puff of our cigarettes, and hide any spare ones we had in the big old tree at the entrance of the church.
Around the same time, I did the paper round for Mr Jones around the church area and down onto the estate where I lived. I did that same round until I was 17 and I was in full time work then too. My wage was £3.90 by the way then(1986) for 7 days delivering ruddy heavy newspapers.
Anyway, in the winter it was always pitch dark around the church area. I had one paper for the vicar and one for the major who lived over the road. Both directly outside of the church gates. I used to be scared to death every morning, and I really mean that. I would run as fast as I could, which was always hard with a sack full of papers. My other option was to leave the bag at the gate, run up the path as quick as I could, straight over to the major's and go back and get my bag. To me this was always too much hassle so I just ran with my bag knocking against my leg and digging in my shoulder. God knows what I was scared of, but I bet ya I nearly wet my knickers nearly every morning.
When I was 14, I was back to visiting a good friend of mine, the only grave in the churchyard with a name on I knew. Steven Jones. He was killed in a car crash in Wrexham. I remember it like it was yesterday. He lived across the road from me and he was 19. I had a crush on him and I would always peer out of my bedroom window to get a glance of him.
By the time I was 16, I got my first job. It was in Holt, so every morning I walked through the churchyard on the way to work, always saying hello to Steve as I passed his grave, which just happens to be across from the tree where we hid our cigarettes.
Then there were the nights I ran like hell through the graveyard, passing the tree, and shouting 'Hi' to Steve as I ran by. These were the nights that I had had a few too many in the local pubs in Holt. my option was, run home the long way through the village or take the short cut through the church yard. It was always the latter, brave whilst under the influence.

Memories hey!!!!! Just can't help getting carried away. Anyway, nothing's changed in my view of the church, apart from a few old friends that are buried there.