Deconstruction
THE trees surrounding the house are beginning to shed their autumn finery, much to the delight of our mutt, who likes nothing better than to charge through the piles of crunchy leaves that I have raked up.
I can’t be too annoyed by this behaviour, as, truth be told, I am the one who introduced her to the joy of rampaging through the fallen leaves when she was just a puppy, and I was old enough to be more dignified. One day, I may act my age, but, thankfully, that day has yet to arrive.
New chapter
WE IN the Figg household are in the process of shedding things, too — books. Over the course of many years, we have built up a large and eclectic library; every room in the house has its own collection of volumes, especially the study.
One entire wall is shelved from ceiling to floor and, until last week, every shelf was crammed, to the extent that not only were the books neatly slotted in next to each other, but the overflow was piled higgledy-piggledy on top of each row.
We did have a sort of system: an organisational skeleton meant that those books fortunate enough to have a “proper” spot on the shelves were arranged in subject groups, while those simply piled up on top were more free-range.
It could take a while to find what one was looking for: I once spent a good 20 minutes searching for Joy Cowley’s Psalms Down-Under. Having exhausted the poetry/hymn/prayer shelving, I found it tucked above Susan Sayers’s Living Stones Complete Resource,Year C and beneath the Scripture Union Big Red Book. Why there? Who knows? It probably made sense at the time.
Anyway, several packing cases full of theology, prayer, and youth resource books are now with book-aid.org, and we are hoping that the recipients will find as much pleasure in exploring and using them as we have done over the years.
Food chain
EXPLORATION of another sort is going on in our back garden. While spring brought with it an industrious mole, who disappeared in the summer, this autumn the garden has been invaded by field voles. The first intimation of their presence was the sudden appearance of small holes in what passes for the lawn.
My first thought was that squirrels were stocking up for winter, but then Number One son spotted a fleet little creature with a shaggy coat and a short tail darting into one of the holes: a field vole. Fortunately, the voles are interested only in foraging and living in the garden; so we are quite happy for them to stay. But the neighbourhood cat may have different ideas: he is visiting us more frequently and looking suspiciously sleek and well fed.
Hidden heroes
FOOD has been on the minds of our Junior Church in this season of Harvest Festival. During one session, we asked what things the children felt thankful for: food featured highly: cakes, sweets, and chips were popular. Mums and dads also had a mention, as had Jesus: in Junior Church, when in doubt, answering “Jesus” is often a good idea.
We also had some unexpected, but equally valid, answers, including socks and bin-collectors. The reply that surprised me most, however, came after the session when I was chatting with a young friend on Zoom and explaining what Junior Church had been up to.
“Worms,” my wise young friend intoned, “I’m thankful for worms,” pointing out that, were it not for worms quietly going about the business of creating soil, food would be scarce, and life would be difficult — at least, that was the gist of it.
How often we overlook those whose work is invisible to us but essential to our lives; and if there isn’t a sermon in there somewhere, I haven’t been married to a priest for 30 years.
Dancing partners
IT IS hard to believe that we have, indeed, been married for 30 years, but we passed that landmark in the summer. Mind you, it is the merest blink of an eye compared with the age of the statuesque sycamore tree in our front garden, which has stood for more than a century — but, sadly, this will be its last autumn.
While working in the garden recently, I noticed a large hole at the base of the tree. Initially, I thought that an animal had burrowed between the roots, but I soon realised that it was more serious. An arboriculturist has confirmed that, although the tree looks healthy, a fungus has eaten away the core of the trunk, and it must be felled before it falls.
I have collected lots of what I call “whirlygigs”, but more sensible folk call “samaras”, and will soon plant them; the tree will live on. Meanwhile, the dog and I are enjoying rampaging together through its falling leaves, and I am giving thanks for the beauty and gracefulness of the old tree as it shares a final dance with the winds of autumn.
Elizabeth Figg is an ex-QARANC officer, nurse, and midwife, now working as a freelance writer.