Of men and logs

 

Nigel went down to a four-day working week. The idea is to find the activities with which he will one day enrich his retirement.

His top pick was volunteering for the Woodland Trust at Heartwood, our local forest. There are hedges to be laid and trees to be planted.  The first time, Nigel took only a spade, but he has now added a camping stool, thermos flask and sandwiches to his accoutrements.

It all sounds like healthy outdoor fun - rather like a camp for superannuated scouts. Meanwhile, at home, I have a lovely quiet day.

On Sunday, we went together for a ramble at Heartwood and Nigel showed me what he’d been doing. 

‘In the woods, folk tend to trample the bluebells which then take a long time to recover. We’re using logs to edge the path and encourage visitors to stay on the straight and narrow.’

Next, at the edge of the woods, we saw an impressive pile of logs.

‘Look! Those are the logs we use to edge the paths.’

Quietly, I imagine the partners of the energetic Heartwood volunteers ringing one another secretly to arrange that there is a great big pile of logs available, enough to keep the working party busy for hours.

While we have another lovely quiet day at home.

One year on

It's a year since Mum died.

I guess, because we lived 300 miles apart, there's a sense in which she remains alive in the same way she always was to me, a presence in my heart rather than in my sitting room.

I have also found more concrete ways for her to continue to be part of my life. 

I brought home some of her calligraphy artwork and have been gradually framing it for myself and the children.

My favourite is an experimental piece which says 'the test of a vocation is the love of the drudgery it involves.'  This was a quote she often repeated, as she enjoyed every aspect of her calligraphy, and even learned how to cut goose quills and to make ink from soot and oak apples.

Amongst the artwork there was also a drawing - a swift chalk portrait of me as a little girl. If it were possible, everyone should have their portrait drawn by someone who really loves them. There can be no likeness as cherished.

And if I want a hug, I can still find her love in the indestructible sweaters she knitted me. 

There are many other ways in which her life still touches mine and I do believe that as time goes by, I think of her more, not less.