By Walt Dulaney

It's 2 a.m. several days after the bomb blasts in Britain, and a kaleidoscope of memories blocks sleep. I'm back in London directing college semesters abroad and it's orientation day 1974. The first rule we're taught is never pick up any abandoned package. The I.R.A. wants British troops out of Ireland, and is employing letter bombs as exclamation points.

That's the Irish Republican Army, militant protestants at war with the … of course, with the Papists. And suddenly I'm 5 years old giggling as my dad and Uncle John balance cardboard miters and play drunken bishops crowning a lecherous Pope. But, I'm told, although the religion is evil, there are good Catholics. Mom and Aunt Mabel tisk-tisk but smile as their naughty mates give the kid his first lesson in prejudice.

Back to London '74, and feeling more than a bit claustrophobic I'm riding a sharp-inclined escalator down several levels to take my first Tube ride. Spotting my clenched hands, a white-haired lady explains the Tube spells safe harbor to her. As a child she fled Nazi bombs down to subway security. When the lights flickered out, someone started singing "There'll Always Be An England" and everyone joined in. I relax hoping that in similar circum-stance I'd be a singer rather than an hysteric. …But years later, when banner headlines announce poison gas attacks in the Tokyo subway, I cringe knowing there's little I'd not have done to vault over the elderly and infirm and reach reviving oxygen.

London '74, and exiting into an alley I come upon a group of students donning black robes and masks. I follow them to the steps of the Tate Gallery where they raise placards denouncing evils the Shah has done to Iran. The Shah - America's favorite ally? … In time I've both Brit and Arabic acquaintances, but when I try to get them together - they're a tea table apart. That's the distance British reserve demands, but Arab acquaintances feel there's no communication until they feel your breath upon their face.

Tea is the only beverage available at the B'n'B where I'm London-lodged in '74. The landlady gets up early to cook and monitor the latest BBC reports on America's presidential ills. Tactfully she expresses her distrust of Mr. Nixon, and wishes we had the stability of a monarchy to outlast political turmoil. I thank her, and close my memory book with a sigh. Time to lay tracks to help another generation of isle youngsters build the resiliency to rebound from the bruises of history, and to aspire to a wiser tomorrow.