I am not worried about my son getting his five a day. He picks and eats so many blackberries and finds apples, pears and plums under so many trees that he is getting plenty. We make very slow progress going anywhere because there are so many to gather. So I doubt we're getting our recommended cardio vascular. I am also going to be making puddings soon to put all the fruit in, so it's not all good news for our health.
He was going to start picking some mushrooms poking out from the grass so I had to tell him, no, they might be poisonous, stop. Then I saw the carton they'd tumbled out of: Tesco's closed cup, grown in Poland apparently. I didn't tell him that some litter is edible, nutritious even, and that it is a mystery why it is litter at all. But still don't eat mushrooms and berries without asking first. Ever.
A couple of autumns ago when I was picking blackberries and apples I found a candle by the side of the road, purple and in its wrapper: Primark's atmospheric blackberry and apple, made in China but uncannily, there among brambles of Britain. It smelt of a Chinese factory's interpretation of blackberries and apples and that year formed the centrepiece of my harvest festival ritual, lit in gratitude for the fruit of the hedgerows, the things that are made in China and the things that grow in Poland.
Amina has invited us to have tea with her. She welcomes us in and my son wants to go out. Her garden is everything he loves: wheelbarrows, mud piles, broken toys, little houses for birds and fruit trees. "She is giving us too many fruit this year," she says of her friend Pear Tree. "Too many! Birds is eating, pears are falling on the grass and are too messy everywhere. Wasps wasps is too many!" She brings us a shopping bag and stuffs pears in. "Only take the big big ones." Next she introduces us to Miss Plum Tree. She is 14 years old and her husband, he does not like. Always cutting, cut cut cutting. But look at her plums! She too, is giving many. Another bag and another greedy grab for fruit.
Tea is served on the plastic table outside. Amina opens an angel cake and cuts big slices for me, my son and my daughter, who at 7 months, is new to things like cake. There is a paper tray of doughnuts and she gives us each one. And figs. Fresh and sweet and pink. Sister Fig Tree is having a wonderful year. I make sure my baby gets big mouthfuls and tell her to relish this, you are tasting something wonderful, my daughter, you are tasting something from another home that I want you to know.
With figs spilling out their seeds on her plate, Amina begins to tell us about her childhood. Listen daughter, these are memories to deepen our souls. There was butter from the cows; wool from sheep that her mother spun, dyed and wove into carpets; flour from their wheat stored in barns. They only ate the vegetables and fruit they grew. It was good to live with chickens and goats.
It was raining today, everywhere except in the underpass we went down for echoes. Abijah wanted to know what the bubbles on a puddle are called and now I want to know too. I had never noticed how a raindrop bounces and lands with a splat and bubble. 'Go in one?' he asked, wanting to be a tiny boatman, sailing this puddle. My son is trying to teach me the wonder of small things. 'It's called?' he asks as he picks up a pink-veined pebble off a driveway. 'Don't throw stones,' I tell him before I notice its translucent beauty, heightened by the shine of rain. I am sad I have no words. Some days it's easier: 'It's called it's called it's called?' just needs me to keep saying what I see: wall, fence, hedge, wall, hedge, fence. (This is a small town.) I must not lose focus. Stay with the walls, look at the drives, note the colour of cars. Do not, oh my self, remember the past nor dream of the future. Here is a van, here is a postman and this boy needs names. Now.
We go to the ant and consider her ways and are wise. She gathers her food in harvest.
7
He was going to start picking some mushrooms poking out from the grass so I had to tell him, no, they might be poisonous, stop. Then I saw the carton they'd tumbled out of: Tesco's closed cup, grown in Poland apparently. I didn't tell him that some litter is edible, nutritious even, and that it is a mystery why it is litter at all. But still don't eat mushrooms and berries without asking first. Ever.
A couple of autumns ago when I was picking blackberries and apples I found a candle by the side of the road, purple and in its wrapper: Primark's atmospheric blackberry and apple, made in China but uncannily, there among brambles of Britain. It smelt of a Chinese factory's interpretation of blackberries and apples and that year formed the centrepiece of my harvest festival ritual, lit in gratitude for the fruit of the hedgerows, the things that are made in China and the things that grow in Poland.
***********************************************
Amina has invited us to have tea with her. She welcomes us in and my son wants to go out. Her garden is everything he loves: wheelbarrows, mud piles, broken toys, little houses for birds and fruit trees. "She is giving us too many fruit this year," she says of her friend Pear Tree. "Too many! Birds is eating, pears are falling on the grass and are too messy everywhere. Wasps wasps is too many!" She brings us a shopping bag and stuffs pears in. "Only take the big big ones." Next she introduces us to Miss Plum Tree. She is 14 years old and her husband, he does not like. Always cutting, cut cut cutting. But look at her plums! She too, is giving many. Another bag and another greedy grab for fruit.
Tea is served on the plastic table outside. Amina opens an angel cake and cuts big slices for me, my son and my daughter, who at 7 months, is new to things like cake. There is a paper tray of doughnuts and she gives us each one. And figs. Fresh and sweet and pink. Sister Fig Tree is having a wonderful year. I make sure my baby gets big mouthfuls and tell her to relish this, you are tasting something wonderful, my daughter, you are tasting something from another home that I want you to know.
With figs spilling out their seeds on her plate, Amina begins to tell us about her childhood. Listen daughter, these are memories to deepen our souls. There was butter from the cows; wool from sheep that her mother spun, dyed and wove into carpets; flour from their wheat stored in barns. They only ate the vegetables and fruit they grew. It was good to live with chickens and goats.
********************************************
It was raining today, everywhere except in the underpass we went down for echoes. Abijah wanted to know what the bubbles on a puddle are called and now I want to know too. I had never noticed how a raindrop bounces and lands with a splat and bubble. 'Go in one?' he asked, wanting to be a tiny boatman, sailing this puddle. My son is trying to teach me the wonder of small things. 'It's called?' he asks as he picks up a pink-veined pebble off a driveway. 'Don't throw stones,' I tell him before I notice its translucent beauty, heightened by the shine of rain. I am sad I have no words. Some days it's easier: 'It's called it's called it's called?' just needs me to keep saying what I see: wall, fence, hedge, wall, hedge, fence. (This is a small town.) I must not lose focus. Stay with the walls, look at the drives, note the colour of cars. Do not, oh my self, remember the past nor dream of the future. Here is a van, here is a postman and this boy needs names. Now.
We go to the ant and consider her ways and are wise. She gathers her food in harvest.
7
