Micklepage - inside the Farmhouse

Following a service, comparing the patterns gouged into one's knees by the straw.
The tethering ring on the manger-altar. The smell when the candles were snuffed out. Muriel Langton squeezing sound out of the harmonium. Hymn books smelling of mildew, Compline on a summer's evening. The patterns of the cross in the tiles above the main door.

The Farmhouse .... the MUD. Welly boots everywhere! The great gatherings at Christmas round the kitchen table, with a joint birthday cake for Jane and me.
Mary Boots serving up delicious food on a wonderful mixture of plates.

The smell of years of ash which had built up in the fireplace; and being allowed to use the bellows.

Being scared to go past the cupboard under the stairs; the sound of the wooden door latches and the growing tall enough to operate them. Sister Stella delighting us with her black spider. Mouse droppings!

Environs

Raiding the tomatoes when Kim grew them in the middle field. Raiding the strawberries when Grace grew them in the vegetable garden behind the farmhouse. Being intrigued by the old privy.

The smell of the toolshed, a mixture of rotting wood and yew tree. The smell of bleach in the dairy, and how cool it was in there.

Following a service, comparing the patterns gouged into one's knees by the straw. The tethering ring on the manger-altar. The smell when the candles were snuffed out. Muriel Langton squeezing sound out of the harmonium. Hymn books smelling of mildew, Compline on a summer's evening. The patterns of the cross in the tiles above the main door. The Farmhouse .... the MUD. Welly boots everywhere! The great gatherings at Christmas round the kitchen table, with a joint birthday cake for Jane and me. Mary Boots serving up delicious food on a wonderful mixture of plates. The smell of years of ash which had built up in the fireplace; and being allowed to use the bellows. Being scared to go past the cupboard under the stairs; the sound of the wooden door latches and the growing tall enough to operate them. Sister Stella delighting us with her black spider. Mouse droppings! Environs Raiding the tomatoes when Kim grew them in the middle field. Raiding the strawberries when Grace grew them in the vegetable garden behind the farmhouse. Being intrigued by the old privy. The smell of the toolshed, a mixture of rotting wood and yew tree. The smell of bleach in the dairy, and how cool it was in there.		The squelchy bog between farmhouse and barn. Wild daffodils in the front field. Grace's gypsy caravan, and being allowed to explore all the little cupboards. Beautiful Jersey calves. Barn cats with their kittens. Cotton sun¬hats and sun-baked earth. Winter, inescapable MUD. People Strange adults passing in and out. Even stranger children we had to be "friends" with. The secure feeling that adults were always there. Numerous Aunties and Uncles. People, people, people. Growing up as a "Community child" was an imposed life-style we cannot evaluate, having no alternative experience for comparison. To those who fed both my body and mind, or just loved me, thank you. Few have been named in my recollections, purposely so. I have maintained contact, however tenuously, with those grown-ups who played a significant part in my early development. You know if you are one of my special people, without being named. God bless you all.

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