When I was a kid ( and I don't mean baby goat, I mean a small child of the human variety) my mother was some kind of demi-god. She was the person who ensured that my bed was snug and warm, clothed in crisply washed sheets that smelled of sunshine because they had been hung on the clothesline and swung in the breeze on a lazy summer's day.
I remember when I was a kid and she tucked me in at night, often so tight that I was cradled in a tight jacket of sorts and she would kiss me on my cheek and whisper " sleep tight , don't let the bed bugs bite " and the light chord would be pulled and I would wonder what a bed bug was and why it might bite me.
But the sandman would come and before I knew it, I would wake up, stretch and wander out to the smell of hot porridge and warm milk, sweetened with honey.
I remember when I was sick and she would send me to bed to spend the day doing something called " recuperating " and I was allowed to have the transistor radio on my side table and she would pop in with a tray and a hot lemon drink ( sweetened with the obligatory honey ) and accompanied by a much welcome slice of toast or a homemade biscuit.
The sheets would be changed each day of my " recuperation " and I would recline on my freshly puffed pillows and look out the window and ponder such heavenly thoughts as " why would Mum want me to stay safe from bed bugs? What is a bed bug? " and " why does Mum say that I am as snug as a bug in a rug? "
Who were these bugs and why did they always seem to be after me? Fortunately, my mind would wander off such deep and heavy contemplations and I would look out my window and see a butterfly and start questioning the idea that a beautiful creature with pretty wings had started out as a caterpillar and spent time in a thing called a cocoon. Why? Would it not have been easier just to start off as a little butterfly and grow up to be a big one, just like I was doing as a kid?
Of course, I did what would be natural and begin to consider the marks on the kitchen wall, where my siblings and I stood barefoot each 6 months and had a ruler put over our heads so that Mum could measure our growth and put a pencil mark with our initials beside said mark. Quite why my mother was preoccupied with the necessity to make us stand barefoot on the cold linoleum floor in the middle of winter always escaped my grasp but, after all, she was Mum, so she must know what she was doing.
Once, I recollect lying in bed sick and listening to my transistor radio, gazing out the window and delving into my mind, and was struck by a thought: why did Mum cry when we left our old house and she wept because she couldn't take the pencil marks with her? Dad had hugged her and told her it would be OK but she still sobbed and said " it's my babies lives.. can't you see that ? " and Dad told her to hush and cuddled her even more.
Why was Dad so worried about Mum? After all, she was the boss of the family and always took care of things because Dad was busy doing something called " bringing home the bacon " which seemed a bit stupid, to be honest. He must have hefted a lot of bacon to feed and clothe us and make sure that we had shoes and clothes.
No doubt it was something that Mum took care of. But how did she turn bacon into money? Still, I supposed, that is what Mum's do.
Or maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with those bugs Mum was always talking about?
Fortunately, it was always about then that Mum would miraculously appear and walk in with one of her trays or another pillow puff session or another snug bug in a rug tuck-in session.
Who knows what mother's minds get up to? I certainly had no idea, but it made sense at the time; if I am to be honest, it was because I trusted her.
As I grew up, I lost that wonderful ability to daydream and ponder the life cycle of a butterfly. I moved on from childish whims and ways. and ceased to ponder
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."
Yes, I grew up.
My transistor radio is long gone, as is my preoccupation with bugs, butterflies and marks on kitchen walls.
I no longer have a clothesline - I have no outdoor space and I take my sheets from a dryer.
We live in a world where our young believe we are out of touch and that is not new. We are suffering from a virus called old age and wisdom learned. But I still have that child in me and she whispers in my ear and says " remember when... ? "
Yes, sometimes, when I am falling asleep at night, my mind can take me back to that little bed in that little house and I can still see my Mum walking in and whispering in my ear " sleep tight and don't let the bed bugs bite "
And off I go again, pondering the butterflies and wondering what happened to the pencil marks I put on kitchen walls for my children.
Well, that is my contribution for " I remember when... "
I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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