To Serve Them All My Days

R.F. Delderfield wielded a massive influence on my childhood. He and James Herriot, actually, were like my twin gods of Englishness constantly hovering above the chaos of my red-headed childhood. My first experience with Delderfield was, as were most of my first experiences with books, as I lounged on my parents' green wicker furniture out on the sun-baked side porch of my illustrious childhood home. [By the by, Barnes and Noble can quite go to hell. Its top 4 search results for my chain query of "To Serve Them All My Days"? - All the Wild and Lonely Places, Meg's Absolutely Wonderful Tremendous Fantastic Day, My Battle with Cushing's Disease, and the Mormon Missionaries. Que?!] As much as I remember ideals, turns of phrase, and the importance of passion in word play, I remember too the smell of summer and the mixed sounds of birds and cars as they simulatenously passed by my insular world.

Quaint, eh?

Delderfield taught me many things. Foremost among his teachings was the idea of how incredibly impassioned education should be. I didn't learn of my want to become an amazing student from that lesson (a sad thing, I assure you). Rather, I became fascinated with the idea and ideal of teaching. The rather chummy air between teachers. The faux fieroscity of teachers as they chastise and encourage students. Tea and crumpets. It all read like such a journey - not only a socially engaging journey, but one in which passion was defined as the burning centre of every human. That might sound like a weird thing coming from a book written by a stodgy Englishman. But it ties in - it has to. Here is this fellow fresh from the horrors of WWI who finds both rest and meaning within the walls of an English boarding school (how's that for a scintillating summary?) And through that recouperative rest (I don't do this often, promise), this man finds passion again, redefined and breathing inside of him.

How cool is that?

I don't want to teach. I refuse, for the most part, because I want to maintain this ideal picture of the teacher. I don't want to taint it. I've been blessed with some of the most encouraging and talented teachers in my life. I'd truly have to be tempted by the devil himself and all his trappings to teach. Otherwise I'd just like to sit quietly (hah) in a corner with a pen in hand and allow other, more courageous personages than I, the chance to teach...before I pounce all over them. (Like a cat!)

Regardless. Despite my inspid babbling, I come to express my joy at the 1982 miniseries of "To Serve Them All My Days." I realise there are few indeed who even know who Delderfield is, even fewer who know of his dash through the fabled halls of English boarding schools. Nonetheless, I hold great joy in it.



(Erin, have you ever seen this series?)

Passion. For some reason, it defines me. Well, that's a silly statement. Passion should define all of our lives. However, even as a child I recognized the magnetism of passion - whether it be in teaching, the magical drawings of a wandering Japanese peasant, or talking drags. I want to fold myself into those worlds in which passion is defined as central to all things.

A passion for teaching: this I learned from Delderfield.