Nostalgia

My life increasingly resembles a game of pass the parcel or musical chairs with me wondering whether I'll reach my next birthday before the music stops!
With this state of affairs, nostalgia has become more enjoyable and I note, a more often indulged in, part of my
existence.
Today, my wife confessed that she had never tasted chestnuts, roasted, boiled or raw! This situation must be remedied as soon as possible , using English (British?) chestnuts , as these taste so much better than those huge
Spanish things that appear in the shops each Christmas.
When I was a child, (Here we go!)we would ritually collect bagfuls of chestnuts every autumn and , nursing our badly pricked fingers,would sit , waiting impatiently around the kitchen stove on which stood the large saucepan of boiling nuts. I remember being the envy of my friends because of my huge trouser pockets which could hold
incredible numbers of chestnuts. The trousers were made from a pair which had belonged to an uncle who had perished in the war and my Granny , who so cleverly altered them , kept the adult sized pockets which when full,
made it look as if I were wearing jodhpurs. (I must say how proud I am to have spelt that last word correctly
and I take this opportunity to apologise for any typing mistakes which may occur due to my attempting to use two fingers to write this.)
There now follows a list of things the memory of which cause me to adopt a dreamy expression, my eyes glazing
as an idiotic half smile causes people close to me to shift uneasily and desperately seek to change the subject.
Lumps of cold Christmas pudding pinched from my Gran's larder , making catapults with my Grandpa and paddling in crystal clear streams amidst willow and horsetails with the sun warming my soul.
Life, looking back,was so simple.
Riding my heavy old cycle several miles to be able to sit in a quiet, sunny place with my back resting against a
pine tree and smoke a Will's Wild Woodbine and eat a piece of chocolate.
Memories of my army service often make me wish I could be back there where life was indeed simple , with
' Part one orders' dictating one's daily routine and too little money dictating the pattern of off duty activities.
Cars and motorbikes I have owned are, in the right company, the subject of hours of animated talk with much
laughter at misfortunes, accidents or minor law breaking ,events which, at the time probably caused much swearing and fits of bad temper and even despair!
Nostalgia. Strange. Remembering the good things. I bet that even the old coal miner, coughing his heart out , his reward for lining the pockets of the mine owners, will recall humourous events in his village pub or proudly speak of his physical achievements.
Are we trying to justify our lives? Perhaps saying it wasn't all worry and strife? So much is good in life.
Childhood, love, courtship and marriage and watching children grow, starting their own scrapbooks of memories.

Well, I like it!

Colours

Winter Water.

November morning

Peace.

Harry the Hedgehog.

The rice wine had been fermenting for two weeks. The little room under the stairs was filled
with a fine aroma which the old man sniffed appreciatively. It was time to strain off the exhausted ingredients and bottle the delicious liquid.

He took the soggy rice and plump raisins which were filled with highly alcoholic wine, to a
corner of his garden and dumped them onto the compost heap , wondering if " Cocky " the half
tame pheasant would find them. Smiling at the thought, he returned to his house.

Sometime during the night, Harry the Hedgehog, doing his rounds, found the heap of rice and
raisins . He had been puzzled by the several rats and a polecat that he'd met , all of whom were
staggering around , legs buckling, some giggling and singing to themselves.

Anyway, pushing this to the back of his mind, he tasted a plump, juicy raisin. It had an unusual
taste, pleasant though and moorish. He tucked into this unexpected feast with gusto, a feeling
of elation gradually filling his large prickly body . He sang little songs remembered from his
childhood , taught him by his mother before she was so tragically run over by the back wheel
of a tractor.

The next day, the old man, nursing a headache himself, the result of drinking too much of last
years elderflower wine, found Harry lying flat on his back, apparently dead , arms and legs flung
wide, his white tummy facing the sky. Detecting a weak pulse, he used a stick to roll Harry
into a cardboard box and this he placed in the old smithy , in a cool, dark , dry corner,
together with a dish of water and a tin lid of cat food.

Harry Hedgehog lay comatose for two days before stirring . Opening his eyes carefully, he
looked around. " My god" he said " My head !" and "How did I get here?" He gratefully drank
some water but could not face the cat food and lay for some time trying to remember what had
happened to him , listening to the passing traffic and watching the swirling dust in the beam of
sunlight that poked it's finger through a hole in the roof. The memory of rice and raisins
returned and vowing never to eat them again, Harry wobbled across to and through the weed
choked doorway and began crossing the road. A huge lorry came down the hill and Harry
crossed himself and huddled down . All sixteen wheels missed him and he hurried across to the
safety of a patch of blackberries . "Must be my lucky day" he thought. He said good morning to
an old rat who was sitting holding his head. " Compost heap?" he enquired. The rat didn't answer.