David Scott Blackhall

My parents were married 89 years ago yesterday. It was Whit Monday 10th June 1935. they were married at Blackheath Baptist Church, Blackheath High Street, Staffordshire; Mum’s wedding dress was blue.

As He Saw it.
A tribute to David Scott-Blackhall who died last month (October 1981) in Finchley Memorial Hospital. Ena Constable, who has written this article, visited him there as a close friend and colleague.
I first met David in 1955 in local government, I as Chairman of Housing in Friern Barnet, he as Housing Manager for Elstree. His impression of me was od “an austere councillor,” whilst I was immediately captured by his crisp but kindly remarks and his great sense of fun. Later that year he was to become totally blind. “The end of Blackhall” pronounced a colleague. “Never” said David and in less than a month he was back at his desk, busy translating, with unbelievable patience the 2000 council tenants’ records into braille. He drove himself hard and let no one believe that God gave him the easy compensation and cushioned all the misery. He took his tragedy by the throat and strangled it, spitting out all bitterness and fiercely carving for himself a new destiny.
Poet, philosopher, broadcaster, author, he was all of these, and each aspect reflected his blinding faith and conviction that the new life was right for him. He never allowed himself to say “if only” or “I wish.” A keen and enthusiastic mountaineer, even after he became blind, he would say “No use when you are half way up a mountain, wishing you had taken another path or chosen a different sumit. You are here and you must accept NOW.”
David was a deeply religious man and I can recall no occasion when he did not quote from the scriptures or from the great poets. His memory was prodigious and the psalms of David (his illustrious namesake, as he fondly called him) his daily sustenance. Listeners to his radio scripts in “Thought for the Day,” and “Ten to Eight” and other series will have been moved by his sincerity and insight. His programme “In Tough” which he compared for fourteen years to the time of his death, had a tremendous listening audience. But he was also a humourist, a joker, a buffoon and every meeting with him was a “rollick in the aisles.” His serious poems dealing with his philosophy of life, were in sharp contrast with his nurses’ verses – rhymes admonishing staff for failing to leave his possessions where he could find them – with which his hospital ward was decorated. His hymns, commissioned for special occasions, have been sung in St Paul’s Cathedral. He has travelled the world lecturing on behalf of blind people, giving hope and comfort, and never, ever failing personally to answer every letter he received.
David believed with Plotinus who wrote, “Nothing is more certain than that this world holds from the supernal and is not deserted nor will it be. Even as things are, all is well.’ There’s a “Thought for the Day” if ever I heard one. The closing living purpose they could read words of his book “The Way I See It” is his own epitaph.
“Acceptable men through all the ages, have felt “the quick stir of wonder” and have wanted desperately to be in contact with whatever living purpose they could read in the wide blue sky and in the fullness of the earth. I shall go down ‘rose crowned into the darkness. Beyond the darkness, there is the everlasting light, the blue eternity.”’

Every so often something takes you by surprise. In a WhatSapp discussion with friends I was prompted to look on Amazon to see if there were any old copies of my Dad's autobiography on sale. Occasionally they do pop up and I now have a few copies. Blow me, if it hasn't been re-published! Well, what do you know? x

Chapter 4 from 'The Way I See It' National Braille day, 'Those Dammed Dots'

National braille day tomorrow, apparently. Watch this space for a suitable post. In the meanting have a picture. x

When I was ten years old my father was asked to give a week-long series of talks for the BBC’s programme ‘Lift up Your Hearts.’ It spanned the days over Christmas and my dad suggested that I should appear with him on Christmas morning reading a festive poem that he had written.
He grilled me endlessly in the weeks leading up to the broadcast, insisting that I know the poem by heart and that my voice inflections should reflect how he had written it. It was then with great excitement that I went with him to Broadcasting House and met the Producer of the programme, Mrs Rosalind Ferguson. The recording went without hitch and at the end my father wished the listeners a very ‘Happy Christmas.’ I knew that was my queue to do the same and dutifully spoke my words: “Happy Christmas everybody”
“Susan!” Mrs Ferguson addressed me firmly, “This is Christmas day, can we have a little more enthusiasm please.” It wasn’t Christmas day, at all, it was the middle of September.
“Happy Christmas Everybody” I repeated the words a little more enthusiastically.
“Come on Susan,” said my father, “You can do better than that. I said it again.
“Susan!” said Mrs Fergason firmly, “You have to imagine that is actually Christmas time, at the moment. You have presents from Father Christmas, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And a Christmas tree in the house?”
“Yes.”
“What else do you look forward to at Christmas time?”
“Tangerines.” I replied.
My father was embarrassed immediately. Apparently, he didn’t want these important people in the BBC thinking that we could only afford tangerines at Christmas. “We’ll have less of these whimsical notions thank you,” Father chipped in. “Let’s try again, and try to copy how I do it Susan. Like this: Happy Christmas everybody.” See, how easy is that?”
“A HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVE-R-Y! ……B-O-D-Y!!!”
“Not quite that much Susan,” said Mrs Ferguson.

A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS POEM
If I had been in Bethlehem
On the first Christmas morn;
If I had been in Bethlehem
When Jesus Christ was born.

How wonderful it would have been
In ancient Bethlehem
To find the stable where he lay,
To kneel and worship him.

My Daddy said there wouldn’t be
A halo round his head
That’s only in the picture books,
Or so my Daddy said.

But I am sure if I had looked
At Mary full of grace,
And Joseph standing proudly by,
The light upon his face.

If I’d been there and turned my eyes
To where the infant lay,
I would have known it was the Lord,
And this was Christmas Day.

The Milton Mountaineers are walking in Glencoe today. Invocation by DSB will be read by his Great Granddaughter, Phillippa, and a short history of the man spoken by Jessica, his oldest Great Granddaughter. xx

I have just been able to uploads these 3 photos of Dad on his Wikipedia page. I have written the description given on each of the pictures.

42 years ago today, a wonderful man passed away. My Daddy, David Scott Blackhall. BBC broadcaster, poet, philosopher, author & much more besides. RIP Dad.

Prompted by the loss of my own dog yesterday, I am posting the original version by D.S.B. I read this by the graveside with a few changes to make it appropriate. A wonderful tribute for any dog.

It was David Scott-Blackhall's birthday yesterday. He would have been 112 years old. It is the birthday of his first born today (I'm not saying how old my sister is!)! What a wonderful birthday present that must have been all those years ago. xx

It is such a long time since I last posted here. 'Alms for Oblivion' the title of an anthology of poetry put together in book form way back when. x

For those of you who have requested the written article, here it is. x

World Peace Day 21st September. This sonnet struck a suitable cord. xx

In the wake of the Queen's death, this seems strangely appropriate. I do hope you agree. xx

A recent 90th birthday party of a cousin has prompted me to post some of the pictures of David when he was a youngster. He was born in Cirencester on 10th May 1910 before moving to Wednesbury, near Dudley in the Black Country.