This Friday’s full moon, traditionally called the Harvest Moon, brings with it memories of the festivals my junior school classmates and I would enjoy at our local church of St. James. We’d walk around from the school in lines two-by-two to see colourful displays of produce, and we’d learn of the importance and meaning of this special time.

Whether the harvest display was grown nearby I now wonder, as it could have been brought in from the village green grocers, but I do like to think it was locally sourced from a hard-worked allotment or someone’s back garden. The memory of those times fidgeting on pews in church though, is that each occasion served to remind us to always be thankful for food. Those moments are probably the reason why I still hate to see food waste to this day.

The words of those sermons might have faded now, so it’s unsurprising if do not recall mention of the growing efforts behind those festival fruits. Tales would have I’m sure told of dirt ingrained fingers sorting and sowing seed, of the physical effort of soil preparation, of the necessary weeding, feeding and watering, and of the general graft and harvesting process itself. They would have been rich and emotive stories no doubt.

What I could have taken away from those days, nonetheless, is the knowledge that those washed potatoes, exuberant leeks and baskets of beans were grown from seeds sown into living soil. My conscience should have been alerted to the fact that each harvest was itself a gift, a miracle even, and that I should always remain grateful for it. At that time though, as a football focussed fruit and veg’ avoiding kid, I’m not sure if I really understood the meaning of it all, or did I?

Those harvest festival displays, discussions and sermons clearly lodged in my mind. As memory-banked moments they are right up there with a trip to Wembley with my dad, climbing on ruined flinty castles on family holidays, and sitting on a First World War tank at a museum. Each of those moments and many more left deep notches in my own story, each hollowed mark cradling a different memory and meaning.

It might all seem random and unconnected of course, but those early memories did have an impact, and certainly channeled my thinking. I might not have become a soldier or a military historian, or followed my friends onto the football terraces, and I clearly haven’t walked the path of an architect or building conservator. I have though carried throughout life an interest and respect for all those areas, and especially for growing, be it for ornamentation or food. Who knows, maybe those festival displays opened my young mind to a green career after all.

When Friday’s full moon comes around then, if clouds allow, I shall be taking time to look up, as always, but to also think back too. I shall ponder those childhood memories and moments of distraction and will continue to reflect on how influential they were. In my mind’s eye I’m sure that trips out, visits to church, weekends exploring and more will flash by, and I’ll continue to process how those valuable early days might have formed my connection with plants and people.

If you spot the Harvest Moon this Friday, where might your memory take you…?

Gary Webb