Misty day in The Grove (Click to see full picture).Sometimes I think that I talk too much, define too much, pronounce too much. Montaigne quotes Seneca: "Not talking but steering is needed." I agree, at least for the moment.
Remembering the other day the maths master who drummed theorems into us, never to be forgotten, I began to remember Miss Browett who taught at the same school. She was much taken with religion. One day she told us approvingly about a relation of hers, a Sunday school teacher,who encouraged his pupils to post their misdeeds, written on bits of paper, into a special letter box. Even at the age of eight or nine, I thought this was a daft idea. Strange how such memories linger - a nostalgia for the absurd.
5 comments:
Ooh, my immediate reaction to your photos of that lovely atmospheric scene was to see ancient spirits wandering amongst the trees. And I like the phrase 'nostalgia for the absurd', which on second thought, seems to apply to my over the top imagination.
Would love to know what happened to the sad little confessions submitted to that mailbox. Once again, I start to think what a
great beginning to a novel...
Rather confession-lite, wasn't it?
And now, fifty or sixty years on, the invitation takes on sinister overtones.
I've read between the lines of Lucy's comment. I'll take it a stage further. Did you or didn't you?
I am not sure that Miss Browett ever produced such a mail box for our use. If she did I am almost certain that I did not conbtribute to it. She had red hair and was given to bursts of emotion. When you are nine or ten the adult world is still remote and hard to fathom. My recollection is that one day she seemed particularly sad, and rumour had it that her finance had been killed in the war. I will confess that she did make an impression on me. Why else should I remember her?
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