Dew

As I walked to work down the small hill from Syon Lane station this morning the grass on the huge playing field of the school next to the station was shimmering a silvery green - the heavy dew brought the coolness of autumn and that fresh, clean, crisp smell that I remember so well from my own school days.

PE on such a school morning was well looked forward to. The knowledge that it's not too cold, not too hot, the transition from the athletics of the summer gave way to the football and hockey of the autumn - less sedate, more team-based activities in the September sun. Somebody was going to get smacked with a hockey ball, my shoes would be covered in mud, and my books would smell of grass and sweat for the rest of the day.

September I remember as an early waking month. Back to school at the start, the later in the month my dad would wake me up early to go to the school playing fields and collect mushrooms for his breakfast. Some morning I would get up early to forage for conkers from the huge horse chestnut tree opposite my house. There would be rich pickings after the nightly winds and the other kids would be jealous of my huge bag of bullseyes. Each of these activities involved walking over the early morning grass and having my school shoes wet and covered in fresh dew.

That's just what I wanted to do this morning - walk from one side of that field to the other, shuffling my feet, getting them as wet as possible. Then for the rest of the day, as I feel my shoes dry off, I can be safe in my knowledge that I lived a little this morning.

Why is it that so many good memories seem to be only triggered by tiny, infrequent occurrences. Why can't I have that dewy freshness every morning?

Tommy