Here is God’s plenty!

Writing about Geoffrey Chaucer, the Father of English poetry, a later poet and critic used the words “Here is God’s plenty” to describe the enormity, as well as the depth and range, of England’s first national bard. I, in my small, humble, yet immensely proud way, would like to echo the very same sentiments regarding dear old “Veteran Lines”, because there is no other place in the wide, wide world that comes anywhere close to it. I would like to point out, that the pronouncement regarding Chaucer’s work does not hold true today; so, I can only lament, of my abode and its surroundings: “Here was God’s plenty”.

I fully understand that the world and the times are changing, but I cannot rid myself of the feeling that the change has been for the worse.

All is not lost, however.

My old home is still standing, the paint on the walls is not cracked and dry, the rooms are bright and airy, the garden of (my) Eden is flourishing and my pet dog, aptly named Buster Osgood, is still doing pretty well. So, in reality, I have nothing to complain about.

But when I step out, I simply cannot find any of the old familiar faces. From “Paradise” to the “Waste-Land” may have been one small step for Man, but it was a giant leap for (my type of) Mankind. All of them just upped and away and all I’m left with is words to take your hearts away.

Let me take you back, for a time. I know you may not agree, but I believe my home is now (at least) the “crème-de-la-crème” of all the buildings in the area. There is a wide-open space in front, where we used to conduct dances and parties, and I’m sure the topography is never going to change. One story about this place came about on a long night clear, with the revelry and ribaldry awakening a new year and a new day. Just opposite, on the parallel street, another legend was born, involving the carrying away of a soundly-sleeping man, cot, mattress, coverlet included, to the open maidan 400 metres away.

Further down my lane, the last house on the right, is another old mansion, replete with legends and lore that can result in tears (of joy and joyful memories). Many of the guys (perhaps many years younger than me) will remember the late-night raids on the house during the mango season, and the resulting galatta. Behind this homestead is another mansion, now totally abandoned. A doughty lady lived there in days gone by and, when she was gored by a quadruped, some of our more mischievous brats spread the rumour that she was the only one who could excite even a cow!

In front of that dilapidated and abandoned house is (now) the unofficial garbage dump of Veteran Lines. It seemed to be dump even when I moved here in 1988 and nobody seemed to give a damn. But, some 20 years ago, I had the entire area cleaned up, the thorn-bushes completely removed, the surface compacted and the few pot-holes filled up. The place was made fit for a robust game of hockey, which we played every Sunday evening till the sun went down. But then the exodus began and with decreasing numbers of players, the ground was allowed to go to seed. I am telling you this because the entire field was made ship-shape by about 10 Anglo boys, their incentive being just 2 bottles of rum to complete the task. Imagine that! And also imagine the sense of pride and achievement that the “Gimme Red” guys felt as they sat down to those delightful swigs of Old Monk.

There are a few more old houses in Veteran Lines, including one which was once called “Starbrennan”, but I will not comment on any of them, for fear of hurting someone’s high-strung feelings. The booze-shop idea for Veteran Lines did not take off (thanks be to God!), but in its stead there seems to be a very modern sports facility coming up pretty fast. The clientele may not necessarily be from Veteran Lines, but it will still be a welcome addition to our para.

And there you have it! Veteran Lines is home to a great many veterans, myself included, but, as the very old saying goes: “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak”—yes, every week upon week upon week, and getting weaker by the day.