That weekend my world was one of bearded men with chainsaws and women in pinnies. The men wielded their tools, the women replenished melamine trays with mugs of tea and home-made rock cakes. The children, me included, looked on, wide-eyed, from a safe distance.
It all felt very communal. Everyone getting on in this neighbourly effort to clear the bank, a steeply sloping strip of wild ground opposite our three houses. Here the trees and brambles, cow parsley, dock and nettles taught us kids their own nature lessons, lessons learned through the experiences of itchy legs, scratched arms, and knees stained chlorophyll green. It was here that I learned how to produce an impressive whistle through a broad blade of grass by making a split with my fingernail in the top to blow through, and where I learned the names of birds who gorged on the blackberries amid the thorns.
But that weekend it was all about clearance – some roots had spread into the garden on the other side and were threatening the foundations of the adjacent house. One of the trees would have to be cut down and The Men of the neighbourhood were going to do it. Now, I’m not sure that I could truthfully describe any of the three males involved as being hurly-burly, hairy-arsed, lumberjack types – quite the opposite, because they were our Dads, and our Dads were all of scientific and mathematical persuasion and watched 'Tomorrow's World'. But two out of three sported hairy chins (Dad from No. 3, and mine) so that was a start.
Old garments were donned and implements oiled whilst inside each kitchen, the aforementioned rock cakes were baked by The Women, and mixing spoons licked clean by The Kids, before the ominous revving of a chainsaw broke through conversation and work commenced. Then, every couple of hours, out came the trays of tea and sugary sustenance, the noise of metal teeth on wood subsided and excited chatter resumed. Wow, look at that huge branch! How much more to do? Another cake?
This memory stays with
me, not because anything spectacular happened
(all human limbs remained intact) but it seemed like an Event. There was something about the mood, the
camaraderie, the collective effort of three families, where all the members
were of similar age and had the same aim, that puts me in mind of documentary films
I’ve watched about communes and co-operatives around the same time. Although a bit different this was still just so... so early '70s. I get a special feeling mixed
in with these recollections and it’s a nice one. Picture, if you will, bohemian stoneware mugs,
fisherman’s sweaters, bold flowery aprons, macrame wall-hangings and eight children who
were free to play and be a little wild outdoors.
As with most things in life, it didn’t
last - the family from No. 3 moved away and mine fell apart - but I still bask in the warmth of childhood reminiscences
like this.
My Mum planted a large strawberry patch on the newly open ground and that Summer the fruits were abundant. We shared them with our neighbours, of course - and the blackbirds and robins helped themselves.
The Sweet: Chop Chop (1972)