September Mourning

It seems that, when September comes, it brings with it each year pretty much the same emotions about life's journey.  There are the annual pictures of little ones being left at the school gate with shiny new bag - or elder sibling's hand - clutched tightly, leaving a tear in mother's eye as another milestone in the life of her child passes, never to return.  Further down the line are similar, but perhaps more easily stifled, responses to later transitions: to a new school, or college or leaving for far-off parts as they put into practice those rudimentary aims for a 'gap year'.

Mother Nature is ever quick to respond with what my English teacher used to describe as 'her sympathetic background'.  We notice the browning of leaves as they prepare to line gutters instead of branches, and with advancing age comes the earlier noticing of lower temperatures, the need for an extra layer of clothing ... along with the frustration of its not being required during the middle of the day when that lingering sunshine still bears some power. 

One thing I noticed this year was the dormant spider hanging motionless for days on end, suspended in the large web on the outside of my kitchen window and looking for all the world as if it has passed its allotted life-span.  Then along comes the shower that I thought would be nature's undertaker, washing away the cadaver, only for me then to see that it has sprung to life once again and has scrambled to the security of the frame along which the edge of the web had been fastened.

This afternoon I attended the funeral of someone whom I had the privilege to know only for a small proportion of his nearly 87 years and, in the wake of this (sorry, no pun intended), it's easy for me to move my thoughts on from the autumn of the year, to the autumn of life itself.

Yesterday morning I found myself quite alone on arriving at the Salvation Army hall.  As I erected tables and spread a gingham check cloth on each one, something triggered recollection of a passing comment made to me by my mother (now dead these fourteen years) that she would like to have owned or run a small roadside tea-shop.  I thought of her 'looking down' at her son, performing the same tasks that would have suited that occupation.

I can't recall now when it was she told me this, nor - perhaps more significantly - at what phase of her life she had had this unfulfilled desire.  Did she consider this in her early adulthood, after a short while in domestic service, followed by a succession of jobs in retail?  How advanced, if at all, were her plans when they were possibly kicked into the long grass by the outbreak of war?  Or was this an ambition of more mature years, possibly with a prospective husband in mind?  Was it before or after she met my father?

So far as I remember, the matter was only mentioned once and I can only imagine that my response was simple acknowledgement, with no attempt to draw out any further detail.  The matter-of-fact attitude that I had to life in those days would probably have not considered it important enough to follow up.  Indeed it's taken me twenty or thirty years to remember it at all!  How different my life would have been if it had become reality!  One thing is certain ... I wouldn't have been writing this blog today!