"Democracy doesn't die in Darkness but in the full light of capitalism." Harry Leslie Smith February 25, 1923-November 28, 2018.

Tomorrow, the 25th of February, was the day 101 years ago my dad was born. I will post an essay on what that means to me on his birthday. But for now, I wanted to leave you the first paragraph from each of his books and mine, which is about our life together. I still find it impressive that this series of political, historical and personal memoirs about working-class life were written. It is a unique perspective on life in the 20th century. The books are a compelling argument on why for the majority of us, the Welfare State is the only thing that will ensure democracy survives, and life is worth living for the many.

Harry's Last Stand

I woke earlier than usual this morning. My eyes opened as the sun clambered over the horizon. I lazed for a while underneath the covers, longing for the warmth of my wife beside me, her voice whispering in my ear. I turned my body towards the wall and stared at her picture, which sits at my bedside, a holiday pose taken a long time ago. She has been dead for more than a decade.

The Green And Pleasant Land

It was a harsh and hungry winter in 1923 when I was born. The night my mother went into labour with me, a fierce freezing rain slashed against the windows of my parent’s home located in a slum on the outskirts of Barnsley. Had it been up to me, I would not have picked the era or the economic circumstances for my arrival into life. Being born to poor folk from the working class at the start of the 20th century guaranteed a life with more tragedy than joy.

Don't Let My Past Be Your Future

In the fading light of an English summer sun, on a quiet beach located on our southern coast, I watched the tide break upon the shore and surge back towards the deep. Its roar drew me to the water's edge where I cooled my bare feet, like I had done in 1927 when I visited the sea for the first time. Then, I was a bairn of just four on a bank holiday outing to Southport with my parents and older sister Alberta.

Love Among the Ruins

I don’t know why, but the winter rains stopped, and spring came early in 1945. When Hitler committed suicide at the end of April, the flowers and trees were in full bloom and the summer birds returned to their nesting grounds. Not long after the great dictator’s corpse was incinerated in a bomb crater by his few remaining acolytes, the war in Europe ended. After so much death, ruin and misery, it was remarkable to me how nature resiliently budded back to life in barns and fields and across battlegrounds, now calm and silent. The Earth said to her children: it is time to abandon your swords and harness your ploughs; the ground is ripe, and this is the season to tend to the living.

The Empress of Australia

In the winter of 1948, post-war darkness felled Britain and happiness like sweets was tightly rationed. The bells no longer tolled for our finest hour. With the war won and the empire lost, the regimental flags were packed away. The tunes of our ancient glory washed away into the surf of change which beat against our island’s shores. Britannia was a diminished power, her influence now insignificant and her affluence long departed. England was dead and mouldering and mourners dressed in black wept at her passing. This green and pleasant land, our Jerusalem, had suffocated under the weight of a corrupt empire, social injustice and economic inequalities.

Standing With Harry

You were angry at death when it came. If you could, you would have fought the Grim Reaper off with the broken end of a beer bottle. That is how you fought your mum’s boyfriend after you witnessed him strike her. You were ten years old, malnourished, “skin on bone,” as you said, from a diet of bread and drippings. But that didn’t stop you from standing up to a bully. There was no bullshit to you. You jumped into the fray when an underdog was being attacked. But death had you in his grasp and he wasn’t going to let you go because you were five years short of a hundred. You were too old and too sick to fight death. So, you fought me instead, and that’s all right because I was your son, best mate, and caregiver for the last ten years of your life.

Thanks for reading and supporting my substack. It’s an SOS because the end of the month approaches and I am short on rent. Your support keeps me housed and also allows me to preserve the legacy of Harry Leslie Smith. A yearly subscriptions will cover much of next month’s rent. Your subscriptions are so important to my personal survival because like so many others who struggle to keep afloat, my survival is a precarious daily undertaking. The fight to keep going was made worse- thanks to getting cancer along with lung disease and other co- morbidities which makes life more difficult to combat in these cost of living crisis times. So if you can join with a paid subscription which is just 3.50 a month or a yearly subscription or a gift subscription. I promise the content is good, relevant and thoughtful. Take Care, John