No, I’ve not quite lost my mind, and I do have a calendar app on my phone. I know it’s April 13, not November 5. (November 5 this year will be doubly memorable, as it’s the date of the 2024 US Presidential election.)
What today actually is, though, is the likely birthday, four-hundred fifty-four years ago, of Guy Fawkes in Stonegate York. His family, which was prominent and solidly middle-class, was involved in local politics and–like many families of the time–religiously mixed. While it publicly celebrated the “Church of England” Protestantism recently introduced by Henry VIII, it also included many who secretly continued to embrace the traditional Catholic faith.
By the time he’d reached what we–in these enlightened times–would call “young adulthood,” Guy had thrown in his lot with the Catholics, and had decamped to Spain, where he fought for years in the Spanish army (this was pretty bold, for a Brit, as it was only a few years after the Spanish Armada attempted to invade, and Spain was clearly enemy territory. It was at this time he adopted the Italian variant of his name, calling himself thereafter “Guido Fawkes.”
Somehow, he managed to make it back to England and must have kept his head down for a bit, until he was recruited, in 1604, by Robert Catesby, the leader of a small band of Catholics determined to assassinate King James by blowing up the Houses of Parliament on its opening day for the year. Guido, an impressive physical figure, with a thick mane of red hair and a beard to match, was something of an explosives expert, and his presence was thought to be a considerable asset to the team.
From the start, though, things did not go the plotters’ way. Attempts to tunnel their way under Parliament proved too much for them, and they had to fall back on a plan to rent several cellars under the House of Lords in which they could place their explosives. Leaks abounded (of the political sort, not the watery sort, despite the nearby presences of the Thames), and anonymous letters were passed into the hands of suspicious House members, warning of a “terrible blow” about to come, and of treason afoot. Finally, the drumbeat of suspicion found its way to the King’s inner circle, and on November 4, 1605, Guy Fawkes himself was arrested in the cellars under the House of Lords, as he stood guard over 36 barrels of explosives, and the fuses and matches needed to set them off.
His brave swaggering before the King, during which he promised to “blow you Scotch beggars back to your native mountains” notwithstanding, Guy Fawkes crumbled under torture (in those days when government-sponsored torture usually meant torture to the death), and signed a full confession naming and shaming his fellow conspirators, who had fled London, but were tracked down and arrested. Those who survived the encounters (not many) were brought back to London and hanged, drawn, and quartered in Westminster’s Old Palace Yard along with Guy Fawkes himself.
Unsurprisingly, anti-Catholic sentiment in England increased after the Plot. Parliament ordered an annual observance of the Fifth of November, complete with the ringing of church bells to commemorate the treasonous affair. The “Popish Recusants Act” was made even harsher, and additional fines were imposed on Catholics who refused to attend Church of England services at least annually, or those who acknowledged the authority of the Pope in any sphere at all. Catholics were also barred from the legal and military professions and were disallowed from voting.
Ever since then and (almost) to the present day, Guy Fawkes Night (fireworks, bonfires, and the pushing around in a wheelbarrow of an effigy of Guy Fawkes while chanting, “A penny for the guy,” collecting money to be spent of fireworks, after which the (straw)man himself was thrown onto the bonfire) has been a beloved rite of passage for British children from all walks of life. My own memories are few as most of my childhood wasn’t spend in England. But, as with special childhood memories, those few are indelibly inked on my brain: My dad’s childlike joy at organizing a fireworks extravaganza, and in setting off things that go “BANG!” Massive, and beautiful explosive displays, the likes of which I’ve never seen since (suspect there might be a bit of affection, and a bit of false memory at play there). Sparklers. The warmth of the bonfire on the chilly November night. Potatoes baking. Hot chocolate.
And, always, the memory of the poor little crow, minding her own business under the porch roof, and so terrified by a particularly loud rocket that she vacated her nest with a screech, flew straight through the open door into the house, parting my mother’s hair with her beak as she went, and causing hours of frustration and mirth as we sought to remove her. Eventually, my mother rounded her up in the bread bin, clapped the lid on, and took her back outside. But the magic of that particular night was gone, and it was just dark and cold by then.
And now (speaking of dark and cold), those annual extravaganzas (extravaganzae?) are largely gone, gone with the wind. Covid was probably the final nail in their coffin, a government-mandated excuse to proscribe such gatherings in the name of the pandemic, but even in the years before the magic had started to fade, town councils had begun to discourage private family celebrations like those I remember and had started rolling out controlled displays by the local authorities reminiscent of “Fourth of July” festivities in the United States. Many of those are now gone, citing “lack of funding” as an excuse, and then, inevitably, concerns about “health and safety” and–wait for it–climate change!
Pretty soon, I can’t help thinking, there’ll be nothing left of it, and Britain’s early Fall festivity will consist–again like that of the United States–only of Halloween and its largely cheap commercialism. And a uniquely British tradition, one which–appropriately–celebrates and memorializes a spectacular failure, and the man who helped orchestrate it–we be lost forever.
Bah, humbug.
