“Why do you want to know its name?” Georgina huffed impatiently at me. “That’s a burr tree if you must know, Mum.”

Me: “Oh, I didn’t know. Did Nanny Marion tell you that?”

G: “No, it’s burr what sticks on clothes.”

Me: “Well, we’re going to find out its proper name.”

G: “Why?”

Me: “Because that’s what we do.”

Oh, that was just so reminiscent of an identical scene a long time ago, when I huffed to my Ma, “I’m never going to need to know all this. I WILL live in London, not out here in the sticks.”

My Ma had patiently told me then that the knowledge of the countryside is timeless. It is something that will last us in generations to come. “Someday, you will bring your children here, Jac,” my Ma used to say. “And tell them the same things that I am telling you now.”

So here we are, my beloved youngest child.

Huff Huff. “Mum! It’ll take us HOURS to pick a pound of crabapples!”

Exactly what I said to my Ma all those years ago! It’s coming back to me now. And it will come back to G a few years down the road.  Thus the magic of families and traditions which I love. Love is immortal, timeless; long after we have passed this way, I know there will be new generations talking about burrs and crabapples on beautiful summer days.