My friend asked me to write a piece for her with the title of 'childhood memories'. I won't name names (love you Ellen). I wrote this in a very short amount of time about a very distinct memory I have of being young. Enjoy!
"Careful! It's not a race you know!"
Mam called for me as I half stumbled out the steps of our house into our expansive back garden. The sun was shining brighter than it had in my living memory. I wish I'd savoured that most of all: it wouldn't shine so frequently in my later years.
From the step, I had surveyed my kingdom: the circular flower bed with the stone border, Dad's numerous vegetable patches spreading all the way to the end of the garden, the fence laden with raspberries and logan berries, the forbidden shed. The question was, where to explore first?
The crunch of grass beneath bare feet was what summer was all about. Birdsong. The scent of sun-cream lingering on my skin. The whole garden was alive, which made it all the more exciting for my exuberant 4 year old self.
I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, all around the garden. I lost myself in the life and beauty of everything - everything was special, everything was different. Trees were climbed (though only so far - I hadn't quite conquered all heights yet), flowers smelt, (something I miss dearly now, thanks to the joys of hay fever Where else could you find a sheltered bush that was a home for a poor family one day, a bakery the next, and a school the day after that? The game was without end. Even on my own, I was able to find fun wherever I looked for it.
But one day it wasn't fun I found, but a monumental fear that has stayed with me to this day, because of the slightest of incidents.
My garden was the equivalent of a life-sized bouquet. Flowers littered the lawn and my mother's beds were always perfectly pruned. The colours were at their most glorious at that time of year. The air was delicately perfumed. All these conditions combined provided the perfect breeding ground for the enemy
.
Carefree, I ran through the washing line , sheets billowing in the breeze. The circular flower bed was next to the washing line, and was brimming with plants. Dotted among them were several stone statues - a hedgehog with bright red eyes, a squirrel with blue, a frog on a log with green. Time for a nose around, I thought.
I knelt down scrutinized as well as one could at such a tender age. The prettier plants were prioritized above the more ordinary. My particular favourite was one my dad had bought me at a garden fair a year previous - long skinny spiralling stems with delicate pink flowers.
Then it appeared. In all its yellow and ebony striped evilness.
The bee.
A horrendous drone filled my ears. I watched it hover precariously over my plant as I paralysed by fear of this unusual creature. It wasn't a particularly large bee - certainly not the queen bee - but it was large enough to scare the living daylights out of me regardless. I'd heard about them. I knew that they could sting. The very thought of a bee stinging me gave me shivers. What if it stung me and didn't die and continued to follow and torment me for the rest of my life? I was paralysed with fear.
As the bee flew away in an erratic zig-zag, I ran to my mam and told her everything. She was pottering, as she normally did on days like that fateful one.
"I'll let you on a secret - he's a lot more afraid of you than you are of him", she said knowingly.
But what was that supposed to make sense to a 4 year old? What was I going to do to the little devil? It's not as if I could sting him. I went inside to the safety of the kitchen and pondered how I could continue life knowing 'they' were out there.
However, this was promptly forgotten when the next sweltering day came around, when there were many more of them out in force. Looking back, I think it taught me something important and I didn't even realise. There's no point being afraid of something bad that might happen, because you'll just end up missing out on all the good.
Mind you, I'm still bloody terrified of bees.
"Careful! It's not a race you know!"
Mam called for me as I half stumbled out the steps of our house into our expansive back garden. The sun was shining brighter than it had in my living memory. I wish I'd savoured that most of all: it wouldn't shine so frequently in my later years.
From the step, I had surveyed my kingdom: the circular flower bed with the stone border, Dad's numerous vegetable patches spreading all the way to the end of the garden, the fence laden with raspberries and logan berries, the forbidden shed. The question was, where to explore first?
The crunch of grass beneath bare feet was what summer was all about. Birdsong. The scent of sun-cream lingering on my skin. The whole garden was alive, which made it all the more exciting for my exuberant 4 year old self.
I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, all around the garden. I lost myself in the life and beauty of everything - everything was special, everything was different. Trees were climbed (though only so far - I hadn't quite conquered all heights yet), flowers smelt, (something I miss dearly now, thanks to the joys of hay fever Where else could you find a sheltered bush that was a home for a poor family one day, a bakery the next, and a school the day after that? The game was without end. Even on my own, I was able to find fun wherever I looked for it.
But one day it wasn't fun I found, but a monumental fear that has stayed with me to this day, because of the slightest of incidents.
My garden was the equivalent of a life-sized bouquet. Flowers littered the lawn and my mother's beds were always perfectly pruned. The colours were at their most glorious at that time of year. The air was delicately perfumed. All these conditions combined provided the perfect breeding ground for the enemy
.
Carefree, I ran through the washing line , sheets billowing in the breeze. The circular flower bed was next to the washing line, and was brimming with plants. Dotted among them were several stone statues - a hedgehog with bright red eyes, a squirrel with blue, a frog on a log with green. Time for a nose around, I thought.
I knelt down scrutinized as well as one could at such a tender age. The prettier plants were prioritized above the more ordinary. My particular favourite was one my dad had bought me at a garden fair a year previous - long skinny spiralling stems with delicate pink flowers.
Then it appeared. In all its yellow and ebony striped evilness.
The bee.
A horrendous drone filled my ears. I watched it hover precariously over my plant as I paralysed by fear of this unusual creature. It wasn't a particularly large bee - certainly not the queen bee - but it was large enough to scare the living daylights out of me regardless. I'd heard about them. I knew that they could sting. The very thought of a bee stinging me gave me shivers. What if it stung me and didn't die and continued to follow and torment me for the rest of my life? I was paralysed with fear.
As the bee flew away in an erratic zig-zag, I ran to my mam and told her everything. She was pottering, as she normally did on days like that fateful one.
"I'll let you on a secret - he's a lot more afraid of you than you are of him", she said knowingly.
But what was that supposed to make sense to a 4 year old? What was I going to do to the little devil? It's not as if I could sting him. I went inside to the safety of the kitchen and pondered how I could continue life knowing 'they' were out there.
However, this was promptly forgotten when the next sweltering day came around, when there were many more of them out in force. Looking back, I think it taught me something important and I didn't even realise. There's no point being afraid of something bad that might happen, because you'll just end up missing out on all the good.
Mind you, I'm still bloody terrified of bees.
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