I couldn’t possibly eat an entire pot of jam!

Even as a kid, mesmerised by the sweet shiny reds and blacks of the berries, – that we’d helped to gather. The Willy Wonker bubble gum scent in the kitchen, as we watched the magical transformation, and the plump sweet eating when the jam was cool enough to sample… even then, my siblings nor I could ever wade through more than a few heaped spoonfuls of the yummy stuff!

The memories of the content and happy days.

We’d frequently spend summer holidays at Marjorie’s cottage. Well, she had three actually, – she lived in the middle one, with the one to the right crammed entirely with large cushions! The other one was stacked right up to the roof, with an extensive selection of delicious homemade produce.

Every year, and for several beautiful summers, we kids were minded by the cool kind lady, with scarlet lipstick and weekly-changing hair colour. She was bang up to date with popular music: she loved Abba, Boy George, and discos; she was seventy-nine when I was seven!

Reading this you might think that the lady we considered a grandmother, she was my late father’s former accountant, might have had a charmed life.

Actually, she was blighted by tragedy. She seldom spoke about it. Yet her adult children lay in the graveyard, at the foot of her very large garden.

It was more of a field actually and needed assistance from Walter the gardener. It was packed with seasonal produce. It was to: “Help the needy”: and that’s where the great lady focused her heart instead. She was always cheery, and we were blessed to have such pure, soul-nourishment.

The harvest suppers’ we held raised thousands. Marjorie went to extraordinary lengths, from the inclusion of international cheese selections – to one of the barns being set up with full professional discotheque sound and lighting.

This was the event that Marjorie set up in her own garden and the purpose of our produce-making summer holidays. Each year it became more and more popular, and the humble cockney lady even made the local newspaper. (Several times!)  Incredibly, she went on to set up a knitting business, with the pure intent of raising further monies.

I can’t remember how many charities, she raised money for, and nor would she know either, if she were alive today, and asked.

She may have been financially comfortable, or even well–off. It was never a subject of conversation.

But, what I do know, and still feel within the dots inside me when I think of her; is an enormous breeze of warming contentment and lots of lasting gratitude.

I think about her frequently, it is extremely humbling, and just like studying a painting, I often find new gems of wisdom.

Feelings of contentment really are the bread, and the soothing hands of being midst nature, are the key to all our lasting harmony. To feel happy, for Marjorie, her jam was the funds she raised for: “the needy”.

In adulthood and long after her passing, I found out that she did have money. She’d inherited her son’s flats in Rupert Street, London. She also had a grandson called Noah, who my late brother became friends with. But she seldom saw him since he lived with his mother in Canada…

Happiness for each of us will vary, we are unique beings after all. But try to a liken it to jam. It will come your way, but in doses sprinkled throughout your days. And remember it is rarely found in mere material things; it is usually cantered around doing good fun things, for and with people.

I hope hearing about Marjorie has helped to nourish your souls too!