Creative Muses; 005 What was your safe place as a child?
I don’t think that I had a safe place as a child; not in the sense that the questioner may mean. Perhaps I rarely felt threatened. Certainly I had my own room from a very young age. Nobody interfered there - at least, that was how I perceived it. My books were undisturbed and it was some years before I realised that dust very rarely removes itself daily and carpet does not repel small items by some form of magic. Certainly I knew that someone else sometimes entered. Grubby clothes discarded into the laundry basket would later appear in my wardrobe, washed and ironed.
Possibly I do myself an injustice. I have difficulty in remembering my very earliest years. Later, of course, there was the loft. I had forgotten that. A fairly near neighbour had a true cottage garden, a riot of giant fuchsias and roses that probably rambled to a far greater extent than a purist would have tolerated. It was unusual after the years of wartime austerity; the “Dig for Victory” campaign had left the average garden almost ready for the plough. The neighbour had turned almost an acre of front garden into a shared vegetable patch, but had kept the tiny back garden as a kind of hidden jewel.
It is my recollection that I found it accidentally. I had read about scrumping for apples and it seemed the kind of thing that I really ought to try. It also seemed a point of pride to eat my loot, but fortunately the neighbour intervened before I could give myself crab apple colic. It seems odd that I let myself be caught and I have only just remembered the reason.
I was astride the main branch of a sturdy old russet when I saw the movement beneath me. I assume that it was a dog-fox. It was far larger than I would have expected and it was moving toward the waste-bins with confidence; then it seemed to perceive something unusual. It did not look up. I could see its head turn and its ears move as it tried to pin-point the source of … when the woman spoke I was so surprised that I almost fell out of the tree! The fox was gone as I started to slide and I expected to be quite literally collared, but instead she said,
“You really should beware of the ants.” I can think of few better deterrents for a young boy in short trousers. I was out of that tree in seconds. I had done a certain amount of damage when scrambling down and we somehow came to an arrangement that I should pick some apples for her(using a ladder. It was cumbersome, but I felt rather pleased to be treated like an adult. I was also quite proud when I learned the techniques for picking apples without bruising the fruit.)
I went on to store them in the loft for her. She showed me how to place and space the fruit - stored apples should never touch or any areas of rot will spread. It is quite true that one rotten apple will spoil a barrel-full.
After that I often took myself off to the loft when the world became a little too much for me. It had a distinctive smell of clean wood, fruit and something indefinable that always made me think of sunshine…
I heard that the whole place was pulled down when they built the motorway and bypass, but I have not been back to see.
Muse; Rupert Giles.
Fandom, BTVS
Words, 585
Possibly I do myself an injustice. I have difficulty in remembering my very earliest years. Later, of course, there was the loft. I had forgotten that. A fairly near neighbour had a true cottage garden, a riot of giant fuchsias and roses that probably rambled to a far greater extent than a purist would have tolerated. It was unusual after the years of wartime austerity; the “Dig for Victory” campaign had left the average garden almost ready for the plough. The neighbour had turned almost an acre of front garden into a shared vegetable patch, but had kept the tiny back garden as a kind of hidden jewel.
It is my recollection that I found it accidentally. I had read about scrumping for apples and it seemed the kind of thing that I really ought to try. It also seemed a point of pride to eat my loot, but fortunately the neighbour intervened before I could give myself crab apple colic. It seems odd that I let myself be caught and I have only just remembered the reason.
I was astride the main branch of a sturdy old russet when I saw the movement beneath me. I assume that it was a dog-fox. It was far larger than I would have expected and it was moving toward the waste-bins with confidence; then it seemed to perceive something unusual. It did not look up. I could see its head turn and its ears move as it tried to pin-point the source of … when the woman spoke I was so surprised that I almost fell out of the tree! The fox was gone as I started to slide and I expected to be quite literally collared, but instead she said,
“You really should beware of the ants.” I can think of few better deterrents for a young boy in short trousers. I was out of that tree in seconds. I had done a certain amount of damage when scrambling down and we somehow came to an arrangement that I should pick some apples for her(using a ladder. It was cumbersome, but I felt rather pleased to be treated like an adult. I was also quite proud when I learned the techniques for picking apples without bruising the fruit.)
I went on to store them in the loft for her. She showed me how to place and space the fruit - stored apples should never touch or any areas of rot will spread. It is quite true that one rotten apple will spoil a barrel-full.
After that I often took myself off to the loft when the world became a little too much for me. It had a distinctive smell of clean wood, fruit and something indefinable that always made me think of sunshine…
I heard that the whole place was pulled down when they built the motorway and bypass, but I have not been back to see.
Muse; Rupert Giles.
Fandom, BTVS
Words, 585