Saturday, 14 November 2015
Children have favourite words. Jug was one of mine, its slightly preposterous pronunciation, its curvy appearance. Is it Dutch? We poured homemade lemonade from a jug. In youth jug bands were encountered, ad hoc jazz bands invariably minus a jug. In November we sat English Literature examinations. The nightingale sang jug-jug. I had never heard an Australian bird go jug-jug. It was like Edward Lear. In my twenties I read Thomas Merton. He visited the novelist J.F. Powers. At dinner Powers’ daughters served the men beer in jugs. Merton, a Cistercian, admired this family scene he would never have himself.