When I make jam I generally put off writing the labels for days. The jars hang around in the kitchen then finally I write those labels, hurriedly. I’d not thought why, until today.
This evening I staggered to my room dead tired after picking fruit most of the afternoon and then making a batch of jam into the evening. First Gooseberries growing in the hedge close to the monastery then, once again, over the hill to my favourite place of the moment. To pick Raspberries in a wildlife-cum-forest garden – with fruit bushes and trees too. Love the place, love the people.
Writing my labels just now I remembered the shadow of early punishments at school! ‘Write a hundred lines’ the teacher would say, write ‘I must try harder’ she instructed. Write, ‘Raspberry Jam. 16th August ’21’, nine times.
Interesting how such early experiences leave a lasting impression, influencing one’s behaviour (not to mention a life) for numberless decades.
So many impressions on the young sensitive mind. Some subtle, some less so. My youthful misdemeanors were minor ones. Scares, minor ones.
This post is for those young minds (and bodies) scared unbearably, astonishingly, in such a way – totally off the scale. Repeatedly.