This post is about you, yes YOU!

Spring 1965. I am seven. And a bit of a snitch.

Upstairs, a curtain is scraped back and Mum appears, wagging finger completely at odds with the twinkle in her eyes. David gets away with murder now. Which is very annoying to my seven-year-old self. But just a few months earlier he had been in hospital, and doubtless my mother wouldn’t have minded if he’d flattened the daffodils, narcissus and everything else besides. The previous autumn, David had watched from his wheelchair as she’d snuggled a cluster of bulbs into the soil, chatting to him all the while.

Now, two operations later, David is back to his normal nine-year-old self, and my parents’ relief floats through the house like a warm summer breeze.



Summer 1968. David is twelve, I am ten, and the dreaded visit from the rag-and-bone man approaches, heralded as usual by the appearance of Mum’s wellies and a steel bucket. Were you to visit the London street where we lived today, you would not witness what comes next. Even if a mobile recycling facility dragged by a horse and cart were to time-travel inexplicably to the present, my mother would be mown down in an instant if she attempted what follows. But this is the 1960s; passing cars are infrequent even at this time of day and so my mother, fearless and determined as ever, is under starter’s orders. Of course, it’s not the rag-and-bone man she’s after. It’s his horse.

David and I are mortified. Next door, Philip and Andrew will taunt us for days, shouting across the fence, ‘Your mum likes horse poo!’

‘Do you have to, Mum?’ we whine.

‘You like my homemade strawberry ice cream, don’t you?’ my mother replies. We nod, not making the connection. Then the penny drops. ‘We ate strawberries with horse poo on?’ we whisper, aghast.

She’s by the front gate now. Whether the sight of my mother provides the horse with the cue it needed I will never know, but today she is again rewarded with a heap of steaming manure dropped obligingly onto the tarmac; for my mother, the rag-and-bone man was more valued for what he brought than what he took away.

But she was right. Her strawberries were magnificent, as indeed was all the produce she grew. Carrots buried beneath fountains of green fronds, beetroots nudging cheekily out of the soil like builders’ bottoms, clusters of blackcurrants as luxurious as a barmaid’s earrings… Everything she grew rewarded the care she gave them by growing their hearts out, summer after summer.



Spring 1973. I am fifteen, and I am being bullied at school. Arriving home, exhausted from the effort of holding back tears all day, I find my mother cross-legged on a blanket under the apple tree, her nose in a book. It’s a warm day, but breezy, and blossoms cascade around her, dabbing the lawn with fingernails of the palest pink. At the sight of my stricken face, she leaps up. She already knows what’s wrong. I’ve spent the last two weeks begging her and Dad not to go up to the school.

‘Sit there,’ she commands, vanishing into the kitchen.

I lie down on the blanket. The dog flops down beside me, pawing at me to play with his ears, and I can’t help but smile. My mother returns with a plate of toast.

‘Eat up,’ she says. ‘And then tell me all about it.’

And I do.

Later, as we fold away the blanket, gather up the cups and plates, my mother cuts a few sprigs of forsythia to take up to the house.

‘Why do you love gardening so much, Mum?’ I ask.

‘Because whenever I’m feeling overwhelmed, I come out here, and somehow everything’s alright again,’ she replies. ‘It gives you perspective, a garden.’ She indicates a cloud of creamy blooms by the gate. ‘See that camellia over there? It looks pretty sorry for itself in the colder months but it’s back every spring, looking gorgeous again. It’s reassuring, knowing nothing stays the same. Change is the only thing we can rely on, Susie. Always remember that.’

And I will.



Summer 1974. David is eighteen, and he’s brought his new girlfriend home for Sunday lunch.

‘Nice to meet you, Abigail,’ my father says. ‘David’s mother is likely to give you a tour of the garden. I hope you don’t mind…’

My mother is already bounding down the stairs.

‘Abi, it’s lovely to meet you. Let me take you round the garden.’

‘Sorry,’ David apologises. ‘She does this to everyone.’

But they are already halfway down the path, my mother pointing out her display of dahlias, their neat pom-poms of flame red and yellow resplendent in the sunshine, then elegant spires of purple delphiniums, then a drift of orange California poppies that surge over the rockery wall like fans at a rock concert. It’s almost as if she’s introducing Abi to the extended family.

As it turns out, Abi’s mother is a gardener, so she is more than able to hold her own. Abi’s mother eventually introduced chastity…..


‘I think Abi’s a hit,’ David says, relieved.

 

lol!

 

While I'd love to add some fantastical story I only have one genuine question to add here. How the fuck do you paragraphs on a phone? I've tried repeatedly all attempts have failed when I hit post. Also yes I am probably the problem here as is true in most cases.

 

Yeah, some replies remind me of looking up a recipe online. “Want to know how to make my famous southern fried frog asses? Read on. When my grandfather Norbert was a child he would sometimes wet the bed. His room was on the northern part of the house and outside his window he could see seven different types of rocks. There was granite, obsidian…”

 

This is a great thread!

I was fapping one day and fourteen werewolves gangbanged me and left me locked in a cage and they took the key for next week.

Just kidding it's been ore than a decade of various relationships and emotional turmoil and heartbreak and now I'm older and more cynical but still hold a light heart.

 

God these piss me off, too!

 

Whatever floats one's boat with full consent granted do and write away thank you for sharing