In 2024, if you are a senior citizen you should rage against the dying of the light for the young rather than the old.

Eleven years ago, on February 25th 2013, Harry Leslie Smith gave this speech to a small group of friends and family to commemorate his 90th birthday. At the time, I was amazed he had lived to see his 90th birthday because my brother had died at the age of 50 in 2009 when my father was 86. That death broke his heart and health. But in the time from Peter’s death until his 90th birthday, I began helping my dad make his “Last Stand.” Two book were already written and 4 months from the date of his 90th birthday, my dad had a book agent who knew he was lighting in a bottle. We didn’t know where the ride would take us when my dad turned 90 but I was determined that his last years would matter and be filled with love. My dad and I did so much from Peter’s death to his own, in 2018, to not make his past our future. You know, I know looking at the world today, it didn’t work out. But it was worth the fight because at least we can say we tried to stop the madness we now call normal in 2024.

When I was born 90 years ago, I don’t think that my parents said, “better hold on tight to that little nipper because he is going to last well into the 21st century.”

For the working class in 1923, there was no certainty that a new-born would survive to see their 1st birthday, let alone 89 more years. Many from my generation just did not make it -far past the post- because if TB, diphtheria and whooping cough did not get you, the poverty of the Great Depression and the carnage of the Second World War did.

My childhood was filled with a great deal of hardship, sadness and heartache. But even in all that darkness; there were moments of sunshine which to remember still give me much joy.

When I was small, my dad bought my sister and me Dandelion and Burdock pop from a cart at the market that sold mushy peas for a penny a plate. I’d never tasted pop before and, it was wonderful. The fizz, its taste seemed so out of the ordinary from my world. I was enraptured by the novelty of that new taste.

Not long after my introduction to the taste of pop, my family's economic security collapsed when my dad lost his job as a miner. Like millions of other families, we were swept into the deadly currents of homelessness and hunger caused by the Great Depression. Poverty destroyed my sense of security and my hope for a decent future for myself or those I loved.

During those first years on the mean streets of Bradford, I longed for that taste of Dandelion and Burdock. I thought that this pop and its fizzy taste was all that separated me from happiness.

I was desperate to recapture that joy the first taste of pop unleashed within me before the Great Depression wiped away my family's working-class prospects. I believed, all I had to do was make my own Dandelion and Burdock and, everything the Great Depression had stolen from my family: housing, work, food, security and love would be returned to us.

Not far from our squat was a derelict field that was littered with rubbish and weeds. I often played there with my sister and, one day, I picked up an empty beer bottle and knocked the dirt out of it. I told my sister I was going to make Dandelion and Burdock pop because I knew the recipe. She looked sceptical but humoured me. My sister helped me gather wild dandelions and other weeds. I took our harvest of weeds, shoots, and stalks and shoved them into the bottle and said "Now, all we need is some water, and it will taste as grand as the real pop."

My sister laughed good-humouredly at me. We went back to our doss house to fill with water the bottle that was already stuffed with weeds and grit.

After the bottle was full, I put my thumb on its opening shook it vigorously until the weeds turned the water briney. When I sipped from the bottle, it did not taste like the pop from our happy days long past. I wanted to cry because I failed to recapture what I thought was lost to me forever. My sister saw the disappointment on my face and said, “go on pass it over, can’t be bad as all that.”

She took a sip but hid her disappointment in its bad taste. “It’s all right. Now come on let’s get cracking before mom sees us and gives us right bollocking."

Throughout my life, I have tried to recapture that sense of happiness I experienced when my Dad bought us for the first time Dandelion and Burdock pop.

On this, my 90th birthday, I raise my glass and wish that you all find that essence of Dandelion and Burdock in your own lives. Savour its taste because it won’t last. But don’t worry because you will always find it again as long as you have hope, love and friendship.

Thanks for reading and supporting my substack. It’s an SOS because the end of the month approaches. 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