Autumn Thoughts

Autumn meant the annual harvesting of apples from the garden, windfall only, picked up from the ground, checked for worms them placed in big buckets and taken to mum sitting on a three legged stool like a milkmaid feverishly skinning each one, discarding the peel before placing the naked fruit into the washing up bowl that we’d brought out for the purpose.  She’d then cut them all up and pop them on the hob in a cauldron with a bag of sugar. The smell would fill the house for hours.

On a few occasions, mum kept some of the better apples back for the local scout group (or school, I’m not sure which). She heated sugar in the saucepan brown and impaled the apples through their core before dipping them to be covered.  Toffee apples confuse me and on the occasion that she offered one I would try to eat it with enthusiasm but fixing my jaws together with a sweet substance that never seemed to break down into easier to swallow bits that stayed on my teeth and in my mouth whilst attempting to bite into a softer interior that was the apple never made sense to me.  The apple, by contrast, always felt too mushy and it was all very disappointing, especially as Hollywood would have us believe they were a Halloween staple beloved by all.

One Halloween she went all out with an evening's entertainment. We had apples in a bowl of water, hands behind backs, faces down, twisting and turning to wedge the bloody things to the side of the bowl for just long enough to grab with teeth before breathing in water. I far preferred the buns on strings hanging from a line - no chance of drowning and you could spend days licking the icing from your own face.

She was very aware of all of the calendar events - as a primary school teacher she would have spent weeks walking the aisles between tables checking on leaf pictures made from leaves or spending hours cutting pumpkin or firework shapes from coarse coloured paper.  Halloween would have been equally creative and she was a dab hand at making a witch’s hat.

Firework night brought baked potatoes, soup in mugs and, if we were really lucky, sausages in hot dog rolls (she’d make exceptions and cook the meat she never ate for us on special days). Dad would buy some fireworks from “puff n stuff” on Turnham Green Terrace.  Dad kept the fireworks in an old biscuit tin and hid the bigger rockets until the time came to light them. The Catherine wheel attached to the tree with a nail during the day would be lit and would always disappoint. The evening was never a relaxing affair as my father would light each touch paper individually and run back, shouting words of warning ‘get back get back’ to his children, who were all more intent on finishing their hot dogs before the ketchup had time to drip from the ends.

My parents took me to the fireworks to celebrate the Royal wedding of Charles & Diana at Hyde Park. I remember being fascinated by the green glow sticks that were being sold and everyone but my parents buying them for their children. My mother was a cynical woman who hated the idea of being ‘had’ by marketing ploys or being a captive audience.  She was absolutely right in this instance, sold as a way to not lose your child in the throngs, they were absolutely everywhere and would have had been no use whatsoever if I’d decided to wander off.  Besides, dad was so tall he was very difficult to lose and also had an almost bird’s eye view of any crowd.


Autumn also brought the most special of puddings that we had been convinced was ‘naughty’ and therefore a treat. Stewed apple and blackberries with dumplings, as hot as the surface of the sun that warmed us on russet leaved days. It was, for some reason, called dumpy slump and we begged for it from the moment we started to fill the ice-cream tubs with blackberries for the annual harvest.  She would freeze all the berries and pop them into the chest freezer in the side shed that she ordered with military precision. Nothing was ever wasted and the berries would last us until Christmas. 

I can still remember the pain of the harvest festival at school, the ubiquitous search for a shoe box followed by the fruitless search for some wrapping paper with which to cover it (we'd always end up using some wallpaper). Then we'd have to fill the boxes with tinned and packet goods for the old people’s home. No beans or pulses, just tinned spaghetti, dry spaghetti and, a box of Jacob’s Cream Crackers if memory serves.  Anything more palatable and I’d have probably eaten some of it on my way to school. We’d have a special assembly with the ceremonial bread made into the shape of shield on display and that would be it for another year.

I loved kicking leaves and no matter how many times I was told off could never resist a large pile of them - if it was good enough for Snoopy it was good enough for me (Good grief!).  It wasn't until I met my husband who had clearly experienced an unfortunate incident at some point in his own childhood. He angrily declared that fallen leaves were merely 'covers for dog shit'. And so that was the joy of the fallen leaves over with.

I guess, in hindsight, I liked autumn as a kid...

It used to be Harvest, Halloween and Bonfire Night. 

Now it's cold, dark and wet.

Any lovers of Autumn out there?