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Jim McCrory

Connections

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 16 June 2025, 14:04

 

“What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand  and stare" 

 — W.H. Davies

 

Image generated with the use of Microsoft Copilot

It was back in the days when butchers still had sawdust on the floor—soft, golden curls of it that caught the light from the high windows and made you feel like you were stepping into a workshop more than a shop. I’d shuffle my feet across it, half out of boredom, half out of a compulsion to make something of it. A drawing maybe, or often, I’d write my nickname: Tory. Tory, if you’re asking. It rhymed with McCrory, and like my birth name, it had been designated without my consent. No wonder some girls hold on to their maiden name after marriage. I have gone through life with my name being misspelt, McGrory, McGroarty, McCrorie and so on.

I always fancied changing my name. Something with a bit of flash. I once knew a lad called Ricky Hopkins—now that’s a name with a future. That’s the name of a man whose books would fly off shelves. Names are funny that way. Depending on the era and what hits are playing on the radio, your child might end up a Britney, a Taylor, or a Carrie Ann or Claire. But spare a thought for the poor souls named Alexis, One wrong shout and it’s not your daughter who answers, but some voice from that Amazon gadget from the kitchen asking if you'd like to reorder your gas relief medication.

But back to shopping with Mum.

We’d be in the butcher’s queue, and she’d always get talking to the person in front or behind. It didn’t matter who they were—man, woman, young, old—she had a gift. Soon they’d be deep into a conversation about the price of sirloin or the scandalous cost of haggis. Laughter would spill out and the butcher would glance up with a smirk, knowing he’d have to wait his turn in more ways than one.

Then it would be Mum’s moment, and buying meat was no swift affair. This was a transaction that deserved reverence. A serious squint at the first cut, a slow shake of the head. Then another. And another. And just when you thought the deal was sealed, she’d return to cut number one with a triumphant, “Aye, we’ll go with that.” The butcher, who’d been through this routine a dozen times, would nod as if he’d just closed on a property.

This ritual repeated itself in the greengrocers, then in Curley’s where we got butter and cheese cut fresh from slabs, and even in Woolworths, where she’d lose time talking to a woman about how life isn’t what it used to be.

By the time we caught the 65 bus back to Copeland Road—the trolley bus, as it was commonly known—Mum’s shopping bags were full and her social batteries somehow even fuller. She’d heave her bags onto the seat beside her and, turning to the people behind, saying, “That’s been me all day!” And with that, the chat would start up again. Someone would offer her a humbug. Someone else would ask where she got her cardigan and all the senseless mundane chat would go on.

It was like that, back then. People had time, or maybe they made time. Connections weren’t scheduled or swiped or signed up for. They happened in queues, over lamb chops, between clinks of bus coins and echoes of shoe heels on linoleum.

As we stepped off the bus onto Copeland Road, the street shimmered with the faint smell of coal smoke and Capuano's Fish and  Chip shop. And as if cued by a director, someone called out from the corner of the derelict landscape  behind the house,  “There’s Tory! Hey Tory, fancy joining us for five-a-side?”

And just like that, the world shifted again—from sawdust to football, from Mum’s trolley to a kickabout with friends. Another connection. Another ordinary, unforgettable moment.

I now see the zeitgeist of connection, or lack thereof that has become the norm.  People walking around with headphones and riveted to devices ; unable to communicate. We are heading into Plato's Cave; a world of duality where we don't see nature, the butterfly, the sundown, the gentle conversation with a stranger and the missed romance that never blossomed. (speaking entirely of single people of course). 

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Jim McCrory

On Promises, Cultures, and the Weight of Words

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 15 Apr 2025, 11:17


"A man’s a man. A word’s a word. And a promise, if kept, can be a quiet kind of holiness."



Image generated with the use of Microsoft Copilot


On Promises, Cultures, and the Weight of Words


"When he promises to do something,
    he always does it. " Psalm 15:4.


When I was an eleven-year-old kid in Govan, there was a television series that hooked me. It was The Flashing Blade, originally titled Le Chevalier Tempête, and dubbed from French to English by the BBC; a swashbuckling epic. I would sing the theme song, Fight by The Musketeers, at the top of my voice. I knew the names of the characters: the Chevalier de Recci and his faithful servant Guillot. I suppose it offered a kind of escape from the gloom of living on the Clydeside in darker days.

One day, my mother promised we had to go somewhere, but assured me we would be back in time for my next episode. I trusted her. But we weren’t. She got caught up in conversation with a relative, and I missed the programme. I was crushed. It was only a boy’s TV show, perhaps, but the disappointment cut deep because a promise had been broken.

There’s a Dutch saying I’ve come to admire: "Een man een man, een woord een woord" — a man’s a man, a word’s a word. It feels ancient, as though it had been lifted straight from the pages of Scripture or chiselled into stone beside the commandments. The idea that your word is binding, that once spoken it carries moral weight, is deeply ingrained in Dutch culture. Promises are not suggestions. Agreements are not optional. Afspraak is afspraak. An agreement is an agreement.

This cultural ethos, the belief that a promise is in some sense written in stone, stands in sharp contrast to the more casual approach I’ve often observed in my own British culture. We are, I suppose, masters of softening certainty. “I’ll see what I can do,” might well mean no. “Let’s meet soon,” might mean never. It isn’t always dishonesty, more often a kind of social cushioning — language used to smooth things over rather than to commit. But even gentle evasions can have a cost. They can breed mistrust and wear down the soul when words are used without any real intention behind them.

The Dutch, shaped by centuries of necessity — reclaiming land from the sea and surviving through collective effort — seem to treat a promise not as a courtesy but as a cornerstone. When you say you’ll do something, it becomes a stone set in the dyke. Remove it, and the whole may weaken or collapse.

This reminds me of the ethical clarity found in Scripture. Jesus said, “Let your ‘Yes’ be yes, and your ‘No,’ no” (Matthew 5:37). Anything beyond that, he warned, comes from the evil one. His words are strong, but perhaps that’s what is needed in a world where speech is often slippery and truth is negotiated. James echoed the same thought: “Do not swear — not by heaven or by earth or by anything else. All you need to say is a simple ‘Yes’ or ‘No’” (James 5:12).

There is something profoundly human in our need to trust words. When we make promises to our children, our partners, our friends, they become the quiet architecture of love, the scaffolding of trust. When those promises are broken, something collapses. Sometimes it is only a little thing, like missing an episode of a childhood programme. Other times, it is much more.

Perhaps that is why the image of writing something in stone still resonates so deeply. Stone is not easily altered. It resists erosion, impulse, and whim. It represents a commitment to truth, to integrity, to something beyond ourselves.

And yet, there is room for error. None of us are perfect. We forget, falter, get overwhelmed. But perhaps the point is not to make no promises, but to speak fewer and mean them more. To take our words seriously, as the Dutch do. As Scripture calls us to do. To be the kind of people who, when we speak, don’t need to be cross-examined or second-guessed.

A man’s a man. A word’s a word. And a promise, if kept, can be a quiet kind of holiness.


Scripture quotations from The Message. Copyright © 1993, 2002, 2018 by Eugene H. Peterson. Used by permission of NavPress. All rights reserved. Represented by Tyndale House Publishers.


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Jim McCrory

No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 11 Nov 2024, 20:05


"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."
– Aesop

 Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

 

The dark winters in Govan, exacerbated by tenements that reached the heavens—at least, that’s how it seemed when you were only ten years old—made life thick with gloom. The lamplighters had made their visit, so we hung around the close to keep warm and dry, stretching out the night with friends.

We heard joyful singing somewhere along the dockside of Copeland Road and went to investigate. It was the local church. Lured by the promise of cakes and drinks, we wandered in. We were given a songbook or song sheets and ushered into a pew.

We were soon caught up in the joyful spirit as we sang something like, 

“G double O D, Good, G double O D, Good.

I want to be more like Jesus, G double O D, Good.”

Afterward, we received home-baked cakes, drinks, and an invitation to the meeting the following week. But we were kids and soon forgot the kindness of strangers.

It was just a moment in time, but that song and evening, like the Northern lights that emerge from time to time, dance a joyful dance in my head.


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Jim McCrory

The One Place Time Stands Still

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 13 Sept 2024, 07:42

No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car.

                                                                                                 August Strindberg.


 Image provided by https://unsplash.com/@enginakyurt

 

Once upon a time, time began at the moment of the big bang. Don’t try to work that out; that’s what theoretical physicists get paid for.

As soon as the Book of Genesis proclaimed, "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth " Time not only began, but continued to move forward. As soon as you read one word here, the moment has gone, never to return. It’s easier to find porchetta at a Bar Mitzvah that move back time.

Fortunately, time refuses to stands still in our head. If I ask you the capital of Scotland, you might say Edinburgh. But if I ask you to describe the last meal you had with family or friends, a film rolls in your head. A captured moment in time.

 

My Captured Moment in Time.

 

As a child, I was brought up in Govan, Glasgow. My friends and I would take the ferry over the River Clyde and eventually find ourselves in the Dowanhill area where Avril Paton’s famous painting was set.

https://avrilpaton.co.uk/prints/windows-in-the-west

I would stare into these homes envious of the happiness that seemed to emanate as I observed get-togethers and cosy chairs with people sitting reading with cats on their lap and children playing board games on a table. Strange, many years later, I had the same sensations when I saw observed winter scene in a Stockholm suburb. I can only conclude that it takes us back to our cosy fairy-tail childhood where logs where on the fire and the family sat around reading and talking. It is a rolling film in my head that only dementia can rob me of.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory

 


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Jim McCrory

Regrets, I have a Few: Some Words on Shyness

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Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@purzlbaum

 

The Yaghan people of Tierra del Fuego — I love saying this country—have this long untranslatable, Mamihlapinatapai. Now this is what this word is all about. Two strangers meet and gain eye contact. Both are desperate to initiate a conversation, but The Owl of Minerva flies at dusk, so to speak, and they miss that opportunity. Tis a pity.

I spent my first five years of childhood in a sort of solitary confinement. These were the days before nurseries, and I spent most days playing in the back yard. To add to the problem, I attended four primary schools before high school. Naturally, I grew up with a painful shyness. As a result, I missed many opportunities in life.

When I was eighteen, I bought a book on shyness; it changed my life. Often shyness relates to not knowing what to say. I know people who have never read a book. Who spend their evening hours watching TV and wasting time on the cyber-hive playing video games and social networking. Then, when they meet people, they don’t have much to say. And to be honest, they can be extremely boring as they repeat the same old stuff.

Learn to read, there are many book-reading meetings online.

Learn to start conversations,

“I see you are reading a book, what’s it about?”

“That’s a nice camera, do you have a website where you post your images?”

“Is this your full-time job, or do you attend university?”

These are a few questions I ask, and I have had the most interesting conversations with passing strangers. Think of the various scenarios in which you can use conversation starters. Go on, bite the bullet.

 

 


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