Sunday, 8 April 2018

Sunday

I have just returned from my usual Sunday lunch out and to put it mildly - I am replete.

The temperature is on the up, so that although it is a cloudy day it is actually quite warm out there.  At last the daffodils are beginning to open and there of pots of polyanthus everywhere.

When I was a child there was a man in our village called Tom F who grew the most beautiful polyanthus and each Spring he bedded out the whole of his front garden with them, tightly packed in - an amazing show of colour.   Folk came from miles around to see them.   Funny that I should just be reminded of him maybe seventy five years after his colourful garden attracted interest -  I don't honestly think I have thought of him in the interim years.   And yet that one act served to ingrain itself in my memory - the brain is such a wonderful thing.

I am sure we all have memories stored away somewhere from our past, memories which can be triggered by the slightest happening in present day events.  Have you one you can share with us?




17 comments:

donna baker said...

Picking raspberries from a long gone farmstead and popping them in my mouth. In the middle of nowhere. I must have only been 5 or 6. Show's how different the times were when kids could go exploring.

Sandi said...

That is wonderful! :) A sweet memory from years ago. I wonder if he ever thought his garden would have such a lasting effect.

Sooze said...

I have a very clear memory of sitting on my grandmother's doorstep with her, helping her to pod peas....although I think I ate more than went into her bowl! I must have been about 7 or 8 at the time (so 50 years ago). I've loved fresh peas ever since and we grow them every year for the pure pleasure it gives me to pod them.

Lettice said...

Upturned flowerpots on a cane filled I think with straw, to attract earwigs. That way they could be disposed of before attacking my Uncle Arthur’s prize chrysanthemums. I could be wrong, mind?

LX

jinxxxygirl said...

I was on a ladder painting the outside of my grandparents porch with the paint can balanced on a step.. My grandmother walked up and something shifted and the paint can fell and i can remember the sweet feeling of relief when it missed her and then a split second later it hit the ground and the paint splashed up so high it cover her head to toe... and another sweet moment of relief when she didn't get mad or upset... Grandma was one to take things in stride.. lol

Bonnie said...

Sitting on my Grandmother's porch with her after dinner just relaxing, talking and playing fun little imaginary games like "Where's the thimble". My Grandmother was always my favorite person and her house my favorite place. I love your memories of the flowers. It must have been so lovely to see that many blooming at once!

Gail, northern California said...

Half of the comments mention a memory from grandparents. I like that.

I'll join the ranks and remember summers spent with my grandmother. She loved gardening--flowers and vegetables---and made the best berry cobbler pies I've ever eaten. And, like Sooze above, a favorite memory is sitting on the back steps in the evenings shelling peas. She grew a beautiful trailing vine with white flowers that opened only at night. We would sit and wait for them to open.

Strange and wonderful what the brain chooses to remember. Even at 73 myself now, I can still see that dear woman's face. Happiest days of my life were spent with her.

kt said...

I, too, remember my grandmother every day even though she's been gone since 1966. I still use her cast iron fry pans and wooden mixing spoon. I stayed with her and Grandpa a lot in my childhood. Even had my own bedroom upstairs (that used to be my mother's.) Miss my Grammy still. I've tried to be as good a Grammy to my own grandchildren, hope they remember me!

George said...

Hi, Pat — Good to see that you're doing well. As you can tell from the silence of "Transit Notes," I've bee on a rather long leave of absence from the blogging community. I'm returning, however, the a new blog, "The Shape of Light," which can be accessed at theshapeoflight.blogspot.com. I look forward to staying in touch. All the best ~

Ruth said...

Flowers always spark memories of childhood - the smell of tall garden phlox in our neighbor's front garden, making hollyhock fairies, the taste of honeysuckle nectar, and all the things we did with dandelion flowers and stems. We would hold a yellow dandelion under a friend's chin. If there was a yellow reflection there, that meant they liked butter! And daisies - he loves me, he loves me not. What a treat when a Cub Scout informed us that we could eat violets!

I remember gardens from my childhood, too, Pat. The world was such a better place back then, other than the War of course.

Joanne Noragon said...

This coming weekend will be the middle of April, Weave, and I am foraying into that garden, come ankle deep mud or what!

Cro Magnon said...

We had a man in my village called Nelson Smith. He was a reputed 'King of the Gypsies', and lived in a Reading Wagon; he also drove a Royce. When he died, hundreds of fellow Gypsies turned up, and they took his wagon out into the middle of a field and burned it, with him inside. I can remember as a small boy visiting the field and looking at the charred remains.

Derek Faulkner said...

I was interested in the comment by Lettice about Earwigs. They used to be a very common garden pest everywhere and yet I can't recall seeing one at all in the last 40-odd years, despite forever working in my garden. Are they still common in other parts of the country.

Librarian said...

Scent can trigger my memory like nothing else.
And it is indeed interesting how sometimes after decades of not actively remembering a certain person, place or object, it suddenly comes to mind, more or less out of the blue.
Now that Derek has mentioned not seeing earwigs anymore, I must say I have not seen one in absoutely ages, either, not even at my parents' allotment where no chemicals are used.

Tom Stephenson said...

I agree with Librarian. The smell of roasting coffee takes me right back to pre-Christmas visits to 1950s London when I was a kid. I see all the huge, glittering window displays of places like Harrods as soon as it hits my nostrils. Same with cigars.

Elise Griffith said...

I was raised Catholic at a time when part of Mass was in Latin. Late one spring, our parish got a new, young priest. He had long hair, a full beard, and rode a motorcycle, which caused quite a stir! Right after he arrived, Latin wasn't used anymore during the service, and a young band appeared with new folk songs to replace the organist and old hymns. I don't even remember his name, but I remember the strange and amazing summer he and his loud Honda motorcycle seemed to usher in. Before that, I didn't know one person could cause such a stir.

Heather said...

When WW2 ended my father came home from the Army, and Mum and I left my grandmother's house to move with him into a rented bungalow in the village. We had it for five years during which time my father tamed the wild neglected garden and made it beautiful. His reward, when nursing a sore back after a busy weekend on the garden, was to see people stopping to look over our wall to admire his handiwork.