Twenty five years ago I took a few photos of my firstborn’s hand on my hand. Since then I’ve made drawings from the least blurry pictures, and transferred one of those to a little piece of lino. Sketches and lino blocks go missing during house moves and home improvement projects.
Finally, after years of dithering, I have cut enough of this lino to make a test print. It might benefit from more little dots in the background and a different colour ink but that’s for another day.
Mothering Sunday is when people from little village churches gather together in the mother church of the area, usually a cathedral.
Also a day to celebrate mothers. You don’t need a special day for that, do you? When I was a child I liked a story about Peachling, who was found inside a fruit. The peach was floating along in a stream. An elderly couple were walking nearby. They were very contented but often wished they had been able to share their happiness with some children.
They retrieved the beautiful peach from the water and took it home to eat. When they cut it in half they were shocked to discover a tiny human inside. They named him Peachling and cared for him as if they had given birth to him. The old woman sewed clothing for him, the old man made his shoes. They taught him everything they knew. Nobody questioned where the peach tree he’d fallen from might be.
My father laughed when telling this story: “Peachling must have been a spoilt brat!”.
Peachling grew up, eventually it was time for him to go and find his future. I was surprised that he could just leave with a bag tied to the end of a stick, the story didn’t describe his plans or tell where he was going. The old couple were very sad but pleased they’d had the opportunity to help him grow.
Both of my parents were wistful when they said that nobody appreciates their parents until much later…