A Mothering Sunday bunch of flowers

This Spring

This Spring is a dull, drear grey;
Where is the sun?
With hope we open each new day,
Hoping that this will be the one
When the sun shines bright
With a golden glow
And a sapphire blue. Summer’s near.
Soon will come warmth,
Winter will go.

MSK

A Green Man in our garden

A Child of the Thirties

I have just recently realised where the England is that is in my heart. It is the England of my early childhood, a place of magic. It is a feeling that has somehow come into being in my old age. It comes from my childhood, probably continuing until twelve years old. My world was one of freedom. There was no war, my home was happy, we were not poor as so many were in those days, I felt I was part of the village where I lived and all was well. My love of woodland, fields and open spaces developed during that time. I had friends to explore with and a bike to ride. I had a mother, father and a little brother to love. What more could I want?
I have not mentioned school. I did not hate it but I must confess that I preferred the holidays. That is a dreadful thing to say these very serious days, I believe.
England is a very different place these days but still a good place to live. There are so many interesting people here. I am a long way from the fields and woods of my childhood. That world no longer exists. Also the child I was no longer exists. I have always lived in the present with no longing to go back.

A Day in the Brecon Beaons

Reaching the mountain top
Was a worthwhile attainment.
Aching footed and out of breath
We sat enveloped in the joy of it
While the winging larks filled
The air with their summer song.
The surrounding azure vault
Stretched away to infinity,
And we were replete with satisfaction.
Maternal ewes with attendant lambs
Roamed the green distance
While far below diminutive vehicles
Sped on their frantic, fuming way,
Leaving the hills to us.

The Jarvis family in 1935

We are fifty five years married today.

Yet more snow in April

When is Spring going to begin, though I must say that there is blossom on some of our trees and

there are plenty of leaves developing.

Storm Clouds over Middlesex

Woodland

Here is a scrap of wild wood at the end of our suburban garden.

Thirty Years in Town

Thirty years of urban life
And still the fields they call,
The wild woods they pull.
The salt marshes send forth their feelers
And fill my heart with an anonymous ache,
Why can’t I let them go.

Or do their pagan gods still cling,
Put out their invisible threads,
Hold me with a grinning satisfaction
In their primeval power.
Oh, let me cut the threads.

But no, I would not cut those threads,
Destroy the unforgotten,
Anaesthetise the ache.
The tremulous spirit needs to stir
To far off music.
I will not close my ears.

MSK

Peggy and the Methodists

I must start this bit of scribble by making one thing quite clear. No one forced me to go to the Methodists. At the age of five I discovered from a friend that when starting at the Sunday school one was given an exercise book, a pencil and a rubber plus a folder in which to put them. The friend was older than I and I was able to go to the chapel with her. This started a connection with the Methodists which continued until ww2 started and I went away with my family.
On looking back I must confess that I don’t think my reason for going was quite as it should have been. However, I remained with the Methodists and who knows, I might have still been with them had the war not started!
I am amazed when I remember that I went Sunday mornings and afternoons for so many years. Of course, the fact that we were given a text every week, and when we had collected a certain number which I can’t remember, we could choose a book, which did not necessarily have to be a religious one, made one good reason for such a regular attendance. I have always been a bookworm. Another reason was the outing in the summer and the Christmas parties.
At the parties we played games. One I can remember was ‘The Farmer Wants a Wife’. Another I think was ‘Poor Jenny Was ‘A weeping’. Those were old folk games, or maybe dances.
One of the summer outings was to Theydon Bois and another to Clacton. I fell off a donkey at Theydon Bois and grazed my arm. At Clacton I could not find my way out of a mirror maze. Also at Clacton there was a roundabout which startled me by suddenly putting a cover over everyone.
We were all given a bunch of violets each to give to our mothers on MotheringSunday.
I remember the Methodists with affection.