Three late summer stories ( giveaway details at end!)
Orchid
The young woman rakes her hands through cellophane wrapped flowers, her partner watching on. The lilies, she says to him, these lilies are not much to look at and he mumbles something. She pulls a potted orchid from the back of the display stand. It looks alright, they agree, but would it be suitable?
I am standing in the queue of our local small supermarket observing this selection of a floral gift. Suddenly the couple approaches. Holding the potted orchid like something a little alien (which it looks to be), the woman asks if I would think this a suitable thing to give to someone whose dog has just died.
Knowing that they don’t have a lot of choices here, or probably wish to look elsewhere, it is up to me to keep my response brief. They don’t wish to know how orchids do nothing for me, especially ones made fake-looking with dye. They will have no regard for the fact that I would certainly kill an orchid, through sheer indifference. Oh dear a dog has died, I say and they nod. The orchid nods in its pot. Yes, the woman says, but is it the right sort of thing to give someone? She looks at me earnestly. Possibly I look like a person who might have an opinion on flowers, the death of a dog, gift giving. I might at this moment, in this supermarket, be the least likely to merely shrug at them.
I say yes to the orchid. It’s a gamble, perhaps, but saying: if the bereaved person likes orchids, or, if they are good with houseplants, is probably not helpful at this moment in time. All they want to do is make a gesture of understanding. This is my understanding. I say yes, in a way that I think is both compassionate to the deceased dog and the bereaved. Yes, I would think it a very thoughtful gift at this time. Losing a pet can be so upsetting. The couple both nod. The orchid nods. They shuffle toward the end of the queue. I take my basket of assorted produce to the counter, wondering if I really should have suggested the bright sunflowers: currently in season, a far cheerier choice.
*
Weather patterns
After two days of surprising sunshine, today brings steady light rain with a steely sky. We have not seen very much summer this year, but what sun we have had has been relished by many. I stand at the bus stop hiding in my raincoat, people-watching. Like most days, there is no consensus as to what season to dress for. In just this narrow Georgian street there are women in sundresses, people in knitted layers, many zipped raincoats, winter scarves and the skimpiest of shorts.
An elderly gentleman stops next to me and says: Lovely weather for it! The ‘it’ is something allusive, what others might be getting up to, but I understand him implicitly. I turn my head, and noticing the rain has eased off, and wishing to be friendly, push back my hood. We did have a few good days, I say. He looks at me with some concern. You’ve got grey hair, he says, as if this has happened to me all of a sudden. Yes, I say, it’s my natural colour. But you’re young! He says, You’re young to have grey hair! I smile. This is the first time a stranger has commented on my hair colour since I chose to stop dyeing it. I am grateful to him for making it a bittersweet encounter. The: but you are young, makes me smile.
We board the bus and the man sits in a seat near to me. I am going to bother you, he says, with a friendly smile. I smile back. Years ago, he tells me, we had proper seasons. Summer was baking hot right up and into October. Then winter was cold. Bitter, bitter cold. I say yes. I nod. I remember heatwaves and snow from my own childhood.
Tony tells me of his time in the Royal Air Force, a mechanic, learned a trade, doing his bit. He was born in 1932 and his parents had basically nothing. Then, one day, his father said we’re going on a bus trip and they got off the bus and his father pointed across the street and said: look, there’s our new house. And they had a brand new house to live in. His father died in 1949, his mother did not want to live in such a big house so she moved which was a sad day. Everyone Tony has known from back then has died now. Some people settled down but he never did. I suppose you’re happily married? He asks me and I nod, a lying nod of course, but Tony’s not interested in me really, he just wants to talk. He talks about going up in the planes, test flights and paper bags. I ring the bell for my stop and he tells me again: why have you got grey hair, you’re young.
I walk home with a spring in my step. I am young, for now. The sun is attempting to find a way through the clouds.
*
Green Acorns
Today I am walking through the park, via the woods. It is the end of summer and I feel it is my privilege to look for signs of autumn. I say privilege because having woods so close to home is not something many have and I walk about now with a dutiful solemnity, mindful of late wildflowers and dog shit. There is a fair bit of both.
These woods have been walked in for many centuries. People have scavenged, hunted and lived here. During the second world war there were look-out shelters built between the trees. These have since been demolished, but if you look carefully, as I have done over time, the remains of some can be found. Just before reaching an area I call the oak grove there is a cluster of skinny ash trees. Some years ago now I sensed a burial beneath the roots, something had happened here. The trees whispered to me that there was a fight just here and several men had been buried hereabouts. All I know is it happened a long time ago and there is nothing to be frightened about. So every time I pass these trees I say: good morning / afternoon gentlefolk. It has become a habit and does not bother me to think too much about the truth or otherwise. I was simply ‘told’ something and have chosen to believe it. I realise this might seem childish and fanciful. Perhaps I have simply created for myself a marker in the woods, a curious signpost.
So today I walk by the ash trees and say my: good morning gentlefolk, then I walk on to the oak grove. It is not a grove of stately old trees. Most are young and wimpy. This year there is a great deal of mildew on the oak leaves. This ever-changing weather, with more rain than usual, has allowed disease. It quickly crosses my mind that this could also mean more galls will be on the trees. My friend Ginny and I will be happy to collect galls later, once they are ready to be found. We will use the galls in our natural dye experiments and for making ink. But now is the time of green acorns. It is a time to look but not fill your pockets. It is like peering into shop window displays before Christmas. This is the time to look about and wonder. So I wonder and I wander about the spindly oak trees, for just a short while.
Thank you for reading!
GIVEAWAY TIME --- I very much hope you have enjoyed reading my weekly studio notes so far! I have made it to three months worth! So, as something of a small celebration and thanks I would like to give away not one but three handmade acorns (note: not the same as in the photo but similar and may not be green!) …. Simply leave a comment below saying hello. If for any reason you cannot leave a comment then email me and say hi. This giveaway is open to all, anywhere in the world, but you must be a subscriber to win. I will put names in a virtual hat and pick two at random. Winners will be announced next Sunday.
I so enjoy these beautiful studio notes Cathy. The quiet moment in my week where I read your words and am transported to a gentle, familiar place is a delicate treasure. I admire your work and am grateful you share your thoughts and makings.
I love acorns so much ❤️❤️