Kiwi Konexions: Restored
While rummaging in an old cupboard in the church vestry Glen Taylor found a tall black metal jug. The ideal container for a display of autumn leaves, thought Glen. But as she cleaned the jug she discovered that it had a very special significance...
It was lurking in the back of the old cupboard in the vestry. Covered in dust and dirt, in cobwebs and the grime of ages, it looked the right size.
I pulled it out, dusted it and took another look. It was the right height, the right width, a tall black metal jug of some sort. It was fine for what I had in mind.
Placed in the sanctuary, full of life-giving water, which would keep my display of autumn leaves fresh, it looked perfect. I noticed a dribble coming from a hole near the base, not a big hole, but big enough to cause my display to fade and die.
Healed with a temporary repair, I used this urn for many years, it became my favourite vessel, until, impregnated with rotting vegetation, it started to smell of decay, so I took it home to see what could be done to restore it.
After soaking. I began to scour and polish, wondering what would be
revealed under these layers of dirt and neglect.
The verdigris, which reminded me of the roofs of the great cathedrals in France, the France I had wandered through in my youth, entranced by its beauty, disturbed by its battlefields, started to flake away, revealing the burnished copper in all its glory. The ingrained dirt gave way to raised embellishments of leaves, fruit and grapes, for the wine reminiscent of the blood shed for us.
With renewed vigour I worked my way around the urn, discovering it had been a ewer. Somewhere there must be a lid. The handles and the body of the vase began to shine like beaten gold, gold which would catch the light from the stained glass windows and bring my treasure back to life.
My mind wandered as I worked. Where had it come from? Who had given it to the church? Had its tiny hole spelt its demise and dismissal to the grave of its unknown cupboard? I polished the rim of its lower base. What a thing of beauty it was. What promise it had. Yet it could have been lost forever.
Turned over, the thick, dark mud, encrusted on its base, resisted removal. Using steel wool and prising with a knife, I dug down to the metal, the body of the vase. Slowly I scraped through each small area until I realised, hidden in the dirt, was an inscription.
I rubbed gently and read, "In memory of," "John Francis," "Killed in action," "France, 1915."
This was more than an old forgotten jug. This was a memorial. This was something special. A son lay dead, forgotten, in some foreign field, like the urn, for all those years, in its dark cupboard.
Now restored, it stands proudly, if somewhat bent, in its rightful place, filled with the red poppies of Flanders fields.
The one it represents once stood proudly too, but stands no more, never bent with age.
