At some stage in my life I moved to a town in New Zealand called Thames. On the lawn of the house was a large persimmon tree laden with fruit. Each year we celebrated the anniversary of our arrival and called it Persimmon Day – just for the fun of it!
Later I was chatting to a woman who had been born and bred in the area. She said that as a girl she used to sneak onto the lawn and steal the persimmons at night. Not that there weren’t plenty to go around, but it was amusing to think the tree was that old and had supplied thieves in its early days!
Another Persimmon Day arrived. On the doorstep appeared two jars of persimmon jam. The thief had been at it again!
Did I mention that the woman, the persimmon thief, was the local Anglican priest? After that, we always invited her and her husband for a few drinks on Persimmon Day.
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