Life and Color is like Wine and Cheese

Life and Color are like Wine and Cheese

Father was always a mystery. I see him occasionally in my dreams: wearing a bowler hat, carrying a black briefcase and the inevitable, tightly rolled umbrella, leaving the house to catch the morning train to London. When he left, not only did my mother and I heave a sigh of relief, but even the house and garden seemed to exhale, like the air slowly escaping from a balloon or a tire. It was not that we didn’t dearly love our father; it was simply that he was such a disciplinarian. Even his conception of living required order, well-founded logic, and a deep sense of duty to his family and fellow men. I often wondered what he did in London, a routine broken only by periods of travel to various European countries. My mother told me he was a civil servant with extensive responsibilities—whatever that meant.

His job provided a very comfortable lifestyle. We lived south of London in a wooded area, our home a large old manor house surrounded by an extensive garden. I soon realized the garden was my mother’s little piece of heaven on earth. It was what she lived for: the trees, the greenhouse, the flowers, and the never-ending struggle to ensure these gifts of nature were nurtured.

From an early age, I embodied her passion for gardening—for exotic plants and a landscape full of color and scent, no matter the season. As a teenager, I realized we lived by the gentle tide of the seasons; the high points were the dawning of spring and the end of autumn, punctuated by the quiet work of caring for our plants in the winter months. For me, spring was the time I felt the sap rising. It had an effect on my body, as though I, too, were waking up to a new season. It was the most exciting time, planning the potting of plants that would embellish the garden with a never-ending festival of color. I loved watching my mother plan the season ahead. She was a capable watercolor painter; consequently, she kept several sketches of possible color combinations for the final organization of the many herbaceous borders. One of my favorite areas was the two rose gardens. It was incredible to see that nature could produce such spectacular beauty with such a range of colors... and scents.

I remember those early breakfasts with my father, elegantly dressed for London, and my mother, her gardening gloves already on the table as she waited to attack the day’s work. There were lunches in the rose garden, smothered in beauty and perfume, or tea on the terrace in the peace of a summer afternoon, discussing the color patterns of the flower beds. My mother and I invented a game: it consisted of selecting and naming three favorite trees, five roses, and four herbaceous borders. We tried to interest our father in the game. "No," was always the answer. He preferred not to pick out specific plants, but rather to walk through his wife’s wonderland. He always marveled at the birds—some with magnificent coloring—that inhabited the garden.

When it was time to complete my education, I went to the Royal Agricultural University. Father approved; Mother was delighted. It was a natural choice, as my entire youth had been spent in the country with a mother dedicated to making nature show all its splendor.

It was the spring of 1914. I had just finished university and decided that, before seeking my destiny, I would spend the summer with my mother in the garden. In my final year at school, there had been rumors of a possible war with Germany. The news seemed to disturb my father, but Mother was lost in the glories of springtime, unconcerned with the outside world. Then, one summer morning, we were told war had been declared. I felt as though a gigantic dark cloud had been thrown over Britain. It took me a month to sign up. Father was proud; Mother was distraught.

The tedious performance of donning a military uniform, with its many buttons and coarse material, was alien to me. Four weeks of basic training felt like a continual nightmare. Rumors circulated around the barracks that the need for reinforcements was so great on the Western Front that we would be sent there after only rudimentary training. The rumors proved right. After a trying, uneventful trip, we crept into a trench at midnight.

The trench was like being welcomed into one's own grave. My company’s only desire was to find enough space to roll up and sleep. That first night, nobody cared about the damp floor, the disgusting smell, or the sight of an occasional rat running to find its mates. Exhaustion was so overwhelming that thoughts of war and the appalling conditions were secondary.

I was woken by the sound of guns. Dawn had already cast its light over the land. Cautiously, I peeked over the top of the trench to see what was happening. I fell back in horror. Before me lay a vast stretch of land completely devoid of life—the earth was ashen grey and pockmarked with craters. My body shook with violent fear—for myself, for my comrades, and for the land itself. Tears ran down my cheeks. Nobody had warned us of this incomprehensible sight.

That first day—with the roar of guns, the shouting of orders, and the hunger satisfied only by tasteless food—set the scene for the months ahead. Slowly, I lost all feeling for nature and beauty. I became devoid of emotion. My sense of past and future vanished; only surviving the day counted. I felt the human being I had been—born with an array of talents—simply closed down to follow the order of duty. It was a bewildering sensation. In those first weeks, I saw the agony of dying for the first time. Two months later, this traumatic reality was a daily occurrence that failed to move a single muscle in my body. I soon learned I was there to kill, or be killed. It all seemed so pointless, yet the charges across that lifeless, grey land were ordered weekly. The only color I saw was the red blood of the wounded. I said goodbye to several soldiers I had befriended during our short time together.

In the quiet hours, I tried to write home, but words failed me. How could I describe this environment to two people who lived surrounded by the glorious colors of nature? At home, majestic trees stood with pride; here, I saw only huge guns that fired agents of death. Our bodies and brains craved two words: silence and peace.

During a two-day rest period behind the front lines, I saw the poppy fields. The sight was so overwhelming that I fainted. I lay there for minutes in a stupor of memory: the scent of home, the delicate colors, the trees rustling in the breeze, and Mother serving afternoon tea. As I woke, the red poppy heads, stirred by the wind, seemed to turn toward me and bow in appreciation. It was unimaginable that in all this squalor and desolation, beauty had struggled to survive. I picked a poppy, kissed it, and said a prayer.

A month later, my number came up. We were ordered to climb out of the trenches and charge the 120 meters of No Man’s Land that separated us from the enemy. I ran the first 50 meters and fell to the ground to catch my breath. The gunfire was furious, earth flying in all directions. To my left and right, I saw my comrades falling to the bullets sweeping the land. I was on my feet again, running toward the hail of lead, when suddenly everything went blank.

The next thing I knew, I was lying on a bed surrounded by the sounds of groans and agony. A voice spoke to me.

"Young man, you were lucky. They told me you were next to a large explosion that knocked you out. It damaged your right leg, which we have treated. Over the next three months, you should be walking again, perhaps with a slight limp. The most worrying thing is the shell shock to your eyes. They have been badly damaged. I have bandaged them for now, but I am going to take it off to see what you can see."

As he leaned over, I felt a sharp pain in my braced leg. Once the bandages were removed, my eyes offered only a dull, misty view of my surroundings. The doctor asked what I saw. When I told him, I saw a ghost-like figure shaking his head.

"I feared as much," he said. "I don’t have the equipment for a deep examination. You are scheduled to be shipped back to England in two weeks. Aside from a few bruises, there is no permanent facial damage."

For the next two weeks, I lay there thinking of home, trying to forget the period of my life that had so profoundly changed my understanding of humanity. Once on English soil, I felt an immense sense of safety. I was transported to a military hospital and my parents were informed. Within twenty-four hours, my mother was at my bedside. Her embrace stirred my heart so deeply I thought I might pass out. She told me father could not come yet, as he was in important meetings with the War Department, but that he was extremely proud of me.

Then, mother started talking about the garden—how she had changed things, and how she couldn't wait to get me home. She told me that, with the clement weather, the colors of the roses were magnificent. I didn't tell her that I could only see greyness and ghostly figures. I preferred to wait for the specialist.

The result was what I had feared. The explosion had permanently damaged my corneas and nerve bundles. The doctor estimated that within three months, I would be blind.

David Nutt April 2026