Early dusk. A celebration prepared inside the static. Dog at side. 58 years ago my mother did something I have not managed to do in my life, she gave birth to a baby girl, who is now me. Barbara Josaphine Wright, if she could see me now, now so far away from who she knew. She who fell in love with the stranger, my father Ross Kellett whose surname I speak and write daily, unchanged for another.
They came, the few who ventured out into this grey slim light, with challenging parking. Les the first to arrive talked to Bob for last evening he’d cooked a tasty coq qu vin, talking of World in Action days. Kit and Paul came with multiple gifts of food. Colin who sat most comfortably at the back swivel chair. Kashar and David tried to persuade me to light the bonfire. Graham came with home cooked food and spoke of TIm Hunken. And Pip walked from Holton. Jon swung by on his bicycle on his way to bell ringing. In soft candle light.
Kaliwood 